Severus Snape and the Janitor's Assistant
by TwoCrazyGirls
Summary: Art is bad at magic. She never went to Hogwarts as a student, too afraid that other students would make fun of her. Now she has another chance to see Hogwarts, but this time as its janitor. On her own, she finds strange, unexpected company in odd places.
1. Introductions

_This occurs only a couple of years after the Potters die. Yes, that would make Harry only about three years old. No, he is not at school yet. Too bad for you. And so, after long hours of work...well, never mind. Here. And yes, I did get my locations entirely correct. _

Artemis Quinn Eldrige was not very good at magic. She was the product of two normal, out of the way people who had grown up together in the small community of Snape, Sussex. They had both gone to wizarding school, graduated, and then returned to their hometown to farm sugar beets. Art followed in their footsteps, becoming another fairly out of the way person, and she was content to live on her family's small farm with her younger sister and the family dog, Herbert. She could sketch, and she could write a coherent sentence, but as far as magic went, she was untrained and obliviously unaware.

Her parents were both magical to an extent, but they didn't like to advertise that skill. When Art turned eleven, they bought her a wand and a cat; that was all. Now she was nearly twenty-one, her cat was dead, and she still wasn't very good at magic. It had been ten years since she had declined those letters to that fancy magic school…Pigskins or whatever it was. She didn't mind that she hadn't gone. She had attended a perfectly good muggle school and graduated with a nondescript standard diploma and average marks. Art felt proud that she had achieved her family's standard of mediocrity.

But the farm was failing. They hadn't made a lot of money before, considering that they lived off of their produce and sold the extra for their spending money. Now, however, they had had a bad crop and four of their seven cows had died, and they couldn't find the money to replace them. And nobody even wanted to talk about the chicken incident. Art had to find a job.

Her parents knew that they could only survive for so long without the extra income, but Art's birthday was coming up. They wanted to surprise her with something big. After all, twenty-one was a good age. So, despite their lack of funding, her parents scraped up the rest of their savings and sent Art to London. She could stay there for a week and experience the bustling city life. And, they made sure to inform her, she could look for jobs she might possibly want there. So it was settled. They were optimistic about the expedition, but when Art looked out the window as her train pulled out from the station, she wondered if she'd be successful…if she'd even have any fun…

x...x

The King's Cross was bigger than Art could have ever imagined. As the train came to a stop, she first stared out the window, then got up and exited the train, continuing to stare at her surroundings. She tilted her head as far up as it would go, and then still had to lean back farther to see the ceiling. It was nearly impossible to find her single bag among the piles of luggage waiting on the platform, so she just waited for the crowd to find their stuff and then disperse.

After about a half hour she saw her lonely bag sitting squashed on the floor, and she picked it up, ready to leave this infernally large place. She couldn't help but stare at people as she walked by them, watching them with amazement and curiosity. Most people didn't seem to care when they were jostled or bumped. It all seemed so natural for them.

Making her way toward the exit, Art happened to notice one frantic boy who raced past her, his luggage swaying precariously on his trolley as he sped by. She heard an irritated squawk and realized with surprise that amid that luggage was a large barn owl in a cage. Curious, she stepped forward as if to follow and in the process saw a small piece of paper fall from the boy's pocket. Picking it up, she saw that it was a ticket, and she called out, "Wait!"

Realizing that there was no way the boy could hear her, she raced after him, not noticing in her pursuit where she was going. It didn't even register that the boy ran through a wall until she had followed, and even then, in her frantic state of mind, she didn't really seem to understand what that meant. Nobody really cared about walls anyway. Gasping and gazing around, she stopped to catch her breath, hoping to see the boy. She had lost him. Well, Art figured, it was probably not a good idea to keep running around. She should just take things a bit slower and actually think about what she was doing.

Seeing a man dressed in a red uniform, she approached him, holding out the ticket. "Sir, I found this—"

The man looked up, smiled at her, took the ticket and stamped it. "There you are, miss." He stated as he handed it back, "If you would be so kind as to board now, the train is about to leave the station."

"But I—" Art stammered, trying to protest as the man helped her onto the train. "Wait! I—" She barely managed to say anything at all before the door closed. Looking out the window in horror, Art realized that all the other doors had been closed as well and the train was beginning to move. "NO!" She exclaimed.

"Miss," a large plump woman tapped her shoulder, smiling pleasantly at her. "I think it would be best if you found a compartment before they all fill up."

Art tried to register that statement in her panic and finally decided that it was the only thing she could do at the moment. She'd have to wait until she reached the next station before she could do anything else.

Finding an empty compartment near the back of the car, Art sat down, holding her bag tightly on her lap. Where was she even going? Looking at her borrowed ticket, she stared at it for a moment before realizing that something was not right. She'd never even heard of the Hogwarts Express! Looking at it again, she suddenly remembered…Hogwarts…could that really be?

Rifling through her bag, Art pulled out her wand, staring at it. She could remember the salesman who had sold it to her. Olivers or something of the sort. He had asked her if she was going to Hogwarts. Yes. She remembered now. Was it true that she was bound for the school that she had been accepted to ten years ago? A new wave of self-pity swept through her. How would they treat her if they realized who she was?

No, she thought. How silly. They wouldn't remember her. She would just talk to the head of the school and explain what had happened. Art was sure they would understand…they had to…

Art drifted off after several minutes of worrying, and she woke with her face pressed against the cold glass of the window as she heard the whistle and the loud clamour of students. Blinking and looking out the window, she realized that the train had stopped moving and that people were getting off. She cautiously slid from her compartment, joining the throng of students as they jostled past.

Out on the platform, she looked around, inhaling the crisp cool air and staring at the trees. It was beautiful. Art wondered if she had made the right decision in not coming here. It made her feel a slight twinge of misery at the sight of all she had missed out on. The student's excitement it seemed was rubbing off onto her.

She began to follow a throng of students who seemed to know where they were going and was starting to feel a little less nervous when somebody grabbed the back of her shirt and pulled her roughly backward. A small, stringy man with long, greasy brown hair glared at her through jaundiced eyes. "Eh? What're you doing wit'out your uniform, missy?"

"Oh! I uh…I, you see, I'm not a st—" Art stuttered, completely caught off guard.

"Never mind the excuses! I'll be taking this to the 'eadmaster."

At the mention of the word 'headmaster' (or at least, that's what Art hoped he meant—it would be bad if he really meant 'breadmaster' or 'deadmaster'), Art followed quietly. She was sure she could explain things to this headmaster. He seemed to be the person to go to with her dilemma.

It was a long walk to this Hogwarts school, Art thought as they trudged up the steep path toward what looked like a rather large looming building in the receding light. As they came closer, Art began to distinguish large pillars and arches and hundreds of glowing yellow windows. Could it be? Was this…a castle? Art couldn't help but stare at everything as the man led her inside through a small doorway built in what seemed to be a forgotten enclave.

He walked at a surprisingly fast pace down what seemed like an endless array of brightly lit passageways, narrow corridors, and up moving staircases. It frightened Art a little, to say the least. She had not known that stairs could move, much less suits of armour, which she also noticed were talking. Looking at the paintings that lined the walls, Art also saw that the people in them seemed to be moving and conversing with each other. What else was in this strange place?

The man had just turned a corner and Art was beginning to wonder how much farther it was to this headmaster's office when another man quite nearly ran into them.

"Filch," he drawled, "Shouldn't you be elsewhere?"

Art just stared at the man as the small man named Filch explained in his rasping voice. This man was very tall, very pale, and had very black hair that hung in greasy folds around his stern face. His black eyes glittered forebodingly from under a furrowed brow, and his mouth was set in a menacing scowl. He seemed to look down his particularly large hooked nose at the rest of the world, as though he hated it all. Art couldn't help but flinch when he cast that disdainful glance at her. That gaze seemed to probe her very mind and soul.

"Not in uniform?" He questioned Filch in a curious voice. "Hardly a matter for the headmaster." Looking Art over again, he added slowly, "She's too old to be a first year, anyway, and she isn't a returning student." He briefly calculated her before speaking directly to her, "What is your business here?"

Art gaped. "I…I…you see…I accidentally… Itookthiskid'sticketandwasputonthetrainandIdon'tknowwhereIamandI'msupposedtobeinLondonrightnowand I JUST WANT TO GO HOME!" She cried in a loud voice, surprising both men.

After a moment's pause, the hook-nosed man looked away from her and stated, "The headmaster would probably wish to speak with her." He cast her one more black stare before turning on his heel and walking away.

The man called Filch took hold of her elbow and dragged her behind him, "Come along then."

Art followed, panting by the time they reached a large statue of a bird. The man said something indiscernibly and, to Art's amazement, the statue moved, revealing a large, spiralling staircase.

"Alright then. Up you go," Filch directed her up the stairs and to a big wooden door. Knocking, he opened the door when a faint voice bade them enter.

Art was tired of being amazed by things, and she didn't bother to stare at anything in the round room as she and Filch approached the desk at one end. There were so many things crowded onto the shelves and on tables and desks; she figured the headmaster must be a packrat. She did a tiny bit of timid glancing around, glaring particularly at a fly that was meandering through the air before a soft, friendly voice addressed her.

"Ah, yes, young Artemis is it not?"

Art stared at the old man, gaping as he smiled at her from behind crystal half-moon spectacles and a long white beard. "What?"

"I was told you had found your way onto the train. I'm glad you arrived with little damage." His eyes twinkled from behind the spectacles.

"How did you…know my name?" She absently swatted at the fly, which had tried to land on her arm.

"I remember every student of mine, Miss Eldrige, even the ones who never set foot on Hogwarts grounds."

Art couldn't think of anything to say, and Filch took the opportunity to butt in, "I found her wandering in front of the train without a uniform, headmaster. Surely there is punishment for riding the train without a cause?"

The man cast a patient look at Filch, "Now, now, Argus. It is unfair to punish Miss Eldrige. After all, I am sure she did not wish to come here at all. Is that so?"

Art nodded, "It was an accident," she affirmed hastily.

"That is perfectly alright. In fact, I was hoping you might accidentally find your way here."

"What?" Art was beginning to feel a little intimidated by this man who seemed to know everything. It didn't help that the fly was still buzzing around, sometimes making brave attempts to land on her.

"Is it true that you were looking for a job?"

"Um…yes, sir," she replied as she tried to swat the fly again.

"Well I must admit to you that we have been searching for someone in need of employment. You see, this is a rather large castle, and even with magic, it is difficult for one lone man to take care of it. Argus here has been asking me for some time to find him an assistant."

"You can't be serious!" Art and Filch exclaimed simultaneously, staring from each other to the headmaster.

"I am very serious," the man replied. "If you don't mind cleaning and a few other duties, we would be happy to take you on."

Art nearly choked. This was impossible! Why would this man, who seemed to know a lot about her although they had never met in person, wish to give her a job? "You wouldn't…be doing this because you know I need the job, would you?"

"That is only part of my reasoning behind this, I assure you. Miss Eldrige, I am quite positive you would enjoy working here at Hogwarts, and I know that you will do a wonderful job."

"But my parents…"

"You can send them a letter explaining everything. And as for your things, we can arrange for them to be brought here. And of course, we must find you a room."

Art's head began to reel. She had been planning on a week in London, and she had gotten this instead. One thing stopped her from walking out the door at that very moment, and it was the thought of her parents' disappointment if she turned down a job. "Oh…all right," she sighed. "I'll do it."

The headmaster smiled, "Good. Argus," he turned to the man and began giving him instructions. Art barely noticed any of it, staring at the fly. It had finally landed and was now crawling on the headmaster's beard. She couldn't very well swat it, but Art remembered that she still had her wand in her hand. Usually she couldn't do any kind of magic whatsoever, but she was very good at zapping things. She aimed it at the fly and a sudden blue light shot from the wand, hitting the fly, which dropped, sizzling, onto the desk.

The headmaster stopped talking, stared at it, and then glanced down at his beard, which was now smoking slightly. Art was afraid he would yell at her, but he merely stated in a calm, benign voice, "Thank you, Miss Eldrige. That fly has been bothering me all day." He turned again to Filch and began to instruct him again.

Finally he turned back to Art, "Very well, Miss Eldrige. Everything has been arranged. Argus will show you to your room and make sure you are settled. You'd best be quick about it, though. We wouldn't want you to miss the banquet."

Filch glared at Art, waving a hand noncommittally and growling, "Well, come on then. We haven't got much time."

Art followed, not sure that Filch was happy that she was his new assistant.

"Your duties are as follows," Filch began as they made their way down the hall. "I tell you to do it, you do it. When you have nothing to do, find me and I will give you something to do. You have breaks for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. After dinner you will work until I say you may stop. The rest of the time is yours. Understood?"

Art nodded. Her job seemed simple enough.

As they descended one staircase, Art saw a woman in green robes and a tall pointed hat coming toward them. She nodded to Filch, then stopped and glanced at Art. "I assume you are the new assistant?" She asked, staring at Art from behind her spectacles. This woman seemed stern like the other man, but not quite as unkind.

"Um…yes." Art wondered how the woman knew that she had been hired as an assistant. Information seemed to travel very quickly. Was this more magic?

"Very good, then. I am Minerva McGonagall, head of Gryffindor house. Pleased to meet you," she extended a hand, shaking Art's briefly before starting up the stairs again. "So sorry to leave so abruptly, but I am rather in a hurry."

Art looked back up at her as she followed Filch down the stairs and into another hallway. How strange these people were. She assumed that they must be professors…well, except for Filch, who seemed to be something like a janitor. It was difficult to keep up with the man, and she wondered how he had so much energy. She figured he had to if he was the only one who took care of the cleaning and maintenance of such a large school.

Another fly suddenly buzzed by, distracting Art from her thoughts as it landed on her forehead. She slapped at it, only to be frustrated as it landed on her ear. "Darn it," she muttered, wishing it would fly a bit further from her face so she could get a better shot at it with her wand. It eventually did so, and she chased it down one hallway that was darker than the rest. Art realized that there was another person coming in the other direction, but she was too intent on killing the fly to care who it was. She raised her wand as it buzzed toward that other person and let out a burst of blue light. _ZAP!_

"Ha!" She cheered triumphantly as it dropped onto a black draped shoulder. Art grinned at the person, hoping they would share in her triumph. Her face suddenly fell. It was the black-haired man from earlier, and he was glowering at her.

"Um…that fly…it was…annoying."

The man merely brushed the sizzled fly carcass from his shoulder with a careful flick of his hand, not taking his eyes off of her. "Not unlike other things in this castle," he stated in a deep voice with menacing undertones. "Perhaps I, too, should take care to eliminate _pests_ from buzzing around the corridors."

"Heehee, about that—" Art let out a nervous laugh, cowering under the man's glare. She was so happy to be interrupted by Filch, who had noticed that Art was not following him anymore.

"Eldrige! Get back here. Stop lollygagging and follow me! You want to eat, don't you?"

Art gladly followed Filch. This time she did not look back at the teacher behind her as they walked away, but she could feel that deadly gaze on her back. She decided that this was a man to avoid.

It turned out that her room was more than she had been expecting. It was a small door on the side of a narrow corridor with tall windows lining one side. Inside, there was a cosy chamber fitted with a desk and a bookshelf against one wall, and another door that led into a room with a fireplace and a four-poster bed inside. A tiny round table stood beside the bed on one side, and on the other was a small stand with drawers to stash things in.

"Wow…I didn't expect…" She gazed around with scarcely concealed merriment. Her job not only paid, but gave her room and board in such a comfortable place? Art didn't care that it was small; she was just happy to have a place to sleep.

"Yeah, alright then. Leave your things here and get movin'. We've got to make it to the Great Hall 'fore the students do. Come on then." Filch didn't seem to care that she wanted to look around.

"My office is just down this way a bit, so if you need anything you come there. Got it?" He asked as she trailed behind him through the corridor.

Art nodded, "Yes, sir." She let him lead her down more flights of stairs--these ones, fortunately, did not feel the need to move so much--and through a long hallway toward two gigantic wooden doors. Stepping through, Art was amazed to see that it was already filling up with a mob of students. There was one table at the end at which most of the teachers were sitting, and that was the table toward which Filch led her.

"Normally we eat before everyone so we can spot infractions," he intoned this word with particular relish, "but for tonight we'll eat here." As he said this, Art noticed two gold plates spring up out of nowhere at the end of the long table, soon followed by the other necessary accoutrements of eating. She sat on the very end, letting Filch sit next to the short, dumpy professor on the other side.

She noticed that the two chairs next to Dumbledore were still empty, and guessed that this was the reason that the banquet hadn't started yet. Just as she thought this, however, the black garbed, menacing professor strode in and took his place in the chair farthest from the headmaster. He did not look pleased. Art was wondering where the other missing professor was when the doors at the far end of the room opened and Professor McGonagall walked in at the head of a frightened trail of young students.

"First years," Filch muttered darkly. "The worst of the lot."

Art didn't understand why he didn't like them. They were so tiny and innocent looking. She wondered what they were going to do to those students in front of the whole school body. It became apparent that the center of attention was not the students anymore, but a battered old hat on a stool. Confused, Art merely watched in curiosity as Professor McGonagall took out a long list and read off the first name, picking up the hat as she did this. A nervous student walked forward and sat on the stool, cringing as she put the hat on his head. There was silence for a moment before a voice called loudly, "HUFFLEPUFF!"

Art jumped--was that hat yelling?

She watched the student stumble with obvious relief toward a table where he was welcomed by several students. This strange phenomenon kept up until every last student had been sorted, and then Art noticed the headmaster stand and approach what looked like a cross between a podium and a candlestick holder. He cleared his throat before speaking, "Welcome students to another enchanting year at Hogwarts. Before we eat, I have a few items of business to attend to. First, I would like to announce that Argus Filch, our caretaker, has asked me to request that certain rules be followed. I must forbid anybody from entering the Forbidden Forest without permission and the accompaniment of a teacher. Running and spellcasting in the hallways is also forbidden, as they can lead to...ah, injury. Second, we would like to welcome a new staff member to our school. Miss Artemis Eldrige will be assisting Filch in his duties as caretaker. Please do your best to welcome her. Thirdly..."

Art didn't pay attention to the rest of the headmaster's speech. She only noticed that for a few moments she was the center of a lot of unwanted attention. Most of the students just stared curiously at her for a minute before returning to their conversations of listening to the headmaster, but the teachers already had a faint idea of what Dumbledore was saying, so they took their time in studying her.

McGonagall was a friendly face, smiling slightly at her as she glanced her way. Art tried to avoid the black-haired, evil professor's gaze, but it was difficult to miss the disgusted expression on his face. She couldn't help but turn to Filch, "Who is that man?"

"That 'un? That's Professor Snape, Head of Slytherin House and the greatest man I ever met. The only professor who still believes in the old methods of punishment. This school was a better place when all the teachers thought his way."

Art shuddered at the thought. She was so preoccupied with the dirty look he shot her that it took her a second to register the man's name. Biting her lip, she decided that it would be a bad idea to burst out laughing, especially if it was at that man's expense. She would never be able to think about home the same way again. She decided that while she was at it, she might as well ask Filch about the other teachers. "Who's that?" She asked in a whisper, pointing to the dumpy professor on the other side of Filch.

"Oh that's Professor Sprout. She's Head of Hufflepuff," he didn't seem to like her very much. "She's too nice," he replied when Art asked about her.

"What about that short teacher over by McGonagall?"

"Flitwick. He's another Head of House--I believe it's Ravenclaw. He's alright, I suppose."

Art was about to ask about the strange teacher with the funny glasses when she noticed that Dumbledore had finished speaking and that food was appearing on the plates. Filch was obviously too busy to care about talking anymore, so Art followed his example and began to eat. The food was spectacular, and Art realized that it had been several hours since she had last eaten. By the time Dumbledore rose and excused the students, Art had eaten more than her fill. It was difficult for her to make her way back to her room, and she got lost several times, but eventually she found it and gratefully slid under the covers of her bed. Warm and well fed, Art closed her eyes and drifted off into a dark abyss of dreamless sleep.

_Well, there's chapter one. Hope you liked it! Please review._


	2. Work

_Well, this is the beginning of Art's career at Hogwarts. If you think she's going to have a good time here, don't get too hopeful. It is, after all, her first day..._

Art woke up slowly the next morning. She didn't open her eyes at first, half hoping that she would find herself in her hotel room in London, or even better: at home. Of course, when she finally did peek over the blanket, she realized with resignation that yes, she was still at Hogwarts and yes, she was still a janitor. Pulling herself out of bed, she managed to find a rather wrinkled spare change of clothes in her disorganized travelling bag.

She changed and pulled out her toothbrush. Suddenly, Art realized that she had a dilemma. Where was the bathroom? She decided that it was a good idea to find one, but she wasn't quite sure where to start.

Fortunately, Filch chose that moment to knock on the door. Art didn't have time to answer before he walked in, so she wondered just what exactly the point of his knocking had been.

"Eldrige? Yeh up already?" He peered at her with yellowed eyes.

"Um…Yes," Art replied nervously, wondering if he'd been waiting long for her to get up.

"Hmmm…" he muttered something under his breath that sounded like "early riser." It seemed to surprise him. "Well," he stated after a few moments, "time fer breakfast. Follow me."

"Um, sir, I was wondering…" Art halted when Filch whirled to glare at her.

"What?"

"I…I was wondering if you could show me where the bathroom was."

Filch stared at her for a moment before nodding, "Er…I suppose if it's necessary."

Art sighed with relief as he started down a different hallway and showed her to a narrow wooden door that looked very much like every other wooden door in the hallway. Art merely hoped she could remember where it was. "Thank you. I'll be out in a moment." Art dashed inside, took care of the necessary things, and raced back out.

Filch was leaning against the wall, his eyes half-closed in thought. Art stashed her toothbrush away in her pocket along with her wand, which she must have put in there without thinking.

"Um…sir?" Art was afraid to wake Filch from his reverie, but that fear was overridden by the fear that he might get mad at her for just standing there.

"Huh?" He jumped slightly before shaking his head and staring at her. "Done already?"

Art merely nodded.

"Well, er…before breakfast I suppose we have time for a tour of the castle. You'll, ah…need to know where things are first."

Surprised by Filch's show of assistance, Art could only nod again. "If—if it's convenient…"

Filch waved it aside, pointing to another door further down the hallway and approaching it. "This is the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. Yeh probably won't have to clean this often. The house elves usually take care of it."

"Oh," Art replied softly, wondering what a house elf was. She'd never seen one in her life.

As she followed Filch, she tried to remember exactly what general area everything was, wishing to avoid getting lost in the future. Unfortunately, her sense of direction wasn't very great, and she was thoroughly lost until they passed a pair of familiar gigantic doors. The Great Hall. Well, at least now she knew they had to be on the first floor. Wonderful. That was a start.

Art began to notice other things on the tour, however, besides where things were. She realized, for example, that five o' clock was very early to be up, considering that very few people were in the hallways, and the ones that were happened to all be teachers. Things seemed rather peaceful compared to the hurried state of things last night, and Art was beginning to enjoy herself. At least, until they ran into Dumbledore, who seemed a little harried.

"Argus, we need you on the third floor immediately," he exhaled in a breathy voice.

"Now, sir? I was just showin' Miss Eldrige the castle."

"I'm sure we can find somebody to…" Dumbledore trailed off as he looked around for a replacement candidate.

It just so happened that Snape chose to round the corner at that exact moment, his brow furrowed and his mouth set in a scowl. He wasn't in a good mood.

"Ah, Severus!" Dumbledore exclaimed in his ever-cheerful voice.

Snape winced ever so slightly, but he resignedly turned, a semblance of an ingratiating smile on his face. Art stared at him; she wouldn't have called that 'smile' a smile. It was more of an almost-smile where the corners of his mouth barely turned up the slightest bit. She did not find it very comforting.

"Yes, Headmaster?" Snape drawled semi-curiously. His black eyes briefly scanned his surroundings, almost as if he was taking in the opposition and preparing to make a getaway.

"We have a…situation on the third floor. Argus is unable to continue Miss Eldrige's tour of the castle. Would you mind taking over?"

Slowly and menacingly, Snape turned his head and looked Art over, wrinkled clothes and all. He didn't seem impressed. "Headmaster—" Snape began carefully and diplomatically as he turned back to Dumbledore.

Unfortunately for both professor and assistant, Dumbledore didn't seem to have time to listen to protests. He started to hasten away with Filch, calling back, "Thank you, Severus!"

Snape watched with mournful resignation as they left. Once they had disappeared around a corner, he turned around in a slow, threatening way, eyeing Art as if she was a dangerous beast. "Well…" He stated with no hint of the tact he had used before. His voice was cold and unwelcoming, "Shall we begin?"

"Okay," Art managed to urge a weak whisper past her lips.

Snape did not move at all. He merely pointed to the main doors not far away. "That is the exit. Feel free to use it anytime you please. Those," he pointed to the stairs, "lead to any floors above this one. Those," he pointed out another set of stairs, this one heading downward, "go down to the dungeons, where I work. Never go down there." He cast her a warning glance that clearly said "something bad might…accidentally happen to you if you do."

"Um…is there anything else?" Art tried to be polite, but the man seemed to take anything she said as a personal insult.

He glared at her, "Do you require more?"

Art cringed.

Snape sighed exasperatedly and pointed toward the doors to the Great Hall. "That is the Great Hall, where students and professors all waste three hours every day gorging themselves instead of studying." Seeing that Art was still confused, Snape returned to his old tactics of explanation. "The Astronomy towers are at the top of the castle, the dungeons are at the bottom. Everything else is somewhere in between." He gave Art one of his haughty looks before starting to leave her, baffled, in the middle of the hallway.

"Wait!" Art called, "I'm still lost!"

Snape whirled one last time, snapping, "And I'm still very busy. Find your own way around!" He stalked away before she could say anything else.

Art fell back, knowing that now was not a good time to argue. She was beat.

Filch found her in the exact same place about an hour later, gazing around with a bewildered expression. He pitied her, knowing that Snape wasn't kind to people who couldn't defend themselves. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he indicated that she follow him into the Great Hall. He showed her to a tiny square table just inside the front doors, pushed up against the wall.

"This is where we normally eat. I sit here," he indicated the chair facing the doors, "so that I can watch the students as they come in."

"Oh," Art replied, not knowing what else to say. She didn't have the same interest in punishing students as Filch did.

She almost jumped when food appeared on the plates, but she gratefully ate the toast, sausage and mash, and pumpkin juice before her, even if she didn't know exactly where it had come from. As she ate, Filch began to fill her in on her duties.

"Alright, today you'll get started in the bathrooms. Usually the house elves take care of them, but we need yeh to just make sure they don't miss anything. The 'eadmaster wants us to make a good impression on the students at the beginning of the year."

Art nodded, her mouth full of potatoes, "Mffoky."

"That should keep yeh busy 'til lunch. Then after yeh eat, I believe Hagrid'll be wantin' some help out on the grounds. I'll show yeh where to meet him after."

Painfully swallowing the mass of toast in her mouth, Art replied, "Alright."

"Good. If yer done yeh can get started now. Just make sure yeh do a proper job of it."

Art, only half finished, realized that Filch didn't mean that she could still finish when he produced a bucket filled with random articles and cleaning supplies from under the table and handed it to her. She got up, eyeing the rest of her sausage sadly. It was good that she walked away right then and didn't look back, however, because if she had she would have seen Filch scrape her plate off onto his and finish it off in a few quick bites.

Deciding that it was a good idea just to start at the top while she had energy and work her way down, Art started by climbing several flights of stairs and searching for the seventh floor bathrooms. She tried not to think about where she would end up. The dungeons. Gulping, she decided that she wasn't going to bother going down there and poking around. Not after what Professor Snape had said.

Finally, after accidentally disturbing three classes she stumbled upon the bathrooms and began to investigate. The girl's bathroom looked rather clean; a little bit of scrubbing here and there made it look like new…or at least somewhat decent. The boy's bathroom was the same, and Art began to think that her job was alright.

The trouble started on the second floor in the girl's bathroom. Art was already feeling the effects of bending down and scrubbing in difficult places. She had just barely begun to scrub the underside of a toilet when she realized that she wasn't using the tiny brush she was supposed to use to get hard to reach corners. She was using her toothbrush. Growling with frustration, Art threw the toothbrush into the toilet, "#!" She expressed herself with several words that would normally make her blush if anybody else said them and turned away, flopping miserably onto the floor.

A sudden splash and a sob barely alerted her to somebody else's presence before Art was bombarded by a hard flying object and a lot of water.

"Throw things at me, will you?" A girl's voice cried as Art spluttered and gripped the flying projectile that had hit her—her toothbrush.

Completely drenched in chilly water, Art gasped, "Who are you?"

"Me?" The girl inquired. "I'm poor, miserable, moping, Moaning Myrtle, that's who I am. And who are you to be throwing things at me?" She asked moodily, eying Art with a scrutinising look. "You're too old to be a student."

"I—I'm just an assistant!" Art replied quickly, realizing that the girl in front of her was floating. She didn't really believe in ghosts, but it was difficult to disprove living—or in this case, dead—proof. "I didn't mean to throw things at you!"

Moaning Myrtle seemed to take pity on Art, which was very unusual, considering that most people took pity on Moaning Myrtle. "Well don't do it again!" She shouted at Art before floating back to her stall and plunging into the toilet. More water overflowed onto the floor, drenching whatever dry parts Art had still had.

Art fled, running back to her room and sitting on the floor where she could wallow in self pity for a few minutes before changing into dry clothes. Leaving her wet clothing to hang off the back of a chair, Art checked her watch and realized that she had only a few minutes to make it to the Great Hall before lunch.

She only got lost once on the way, running into a few students before finally sliding, gasping, into her seat at Filch's small table. "Sorry…I'm…late, sir…"

Filch eyed her carefully. "Yeh finish alright?"

"Yeah," Art lied, not about to disclose what had happened in the second floor bathroom.

He nodded, "Good. We'll have time to head down to Hagrid's now."

"Now?" Art stared hungrily at the remains of what looked like a delicious lunch.

"Yes. You're too late to eat. Yeh can grab somethin' after yeh help Hagrid." Filch stood and motioned for Art to follow.

Art did so, although she couldn't resist snagging a small slice of turkey and a piece of bread off the table and stuffing it into her mouth on the way. Filch led her out the door and onto the grounds, guiding her along a path that wound down the steep hillside toward a round hut nestled near the dark trees of the Forbidden Forest. She noticed for the first time that something furry was following Filch. Thinking about it and taking a closer look, she realized it was a cat. Frowning, Art realized the cat had been following Filch everywhere; she just hadn't noticed it before.

"Um, sir, is that your cat?"

Filch briefly cast a look at the cat, who meowed at him, "Mrs. Norris? Yeah, she's my cat. Why? Yeh don't like cats?" There was something accusing in his voice.

"Oh, no, I like cats," Art hastily replied. "I used to have one. I was really sad when it died."

Filch seemed to have lost interest. Art shut up.

As they neared the hut, Art noticed a man and a dog out in the yard. The man was gigantic, with long wiry black hair and a bushy beard to match. He wore a coat that seemed as though it was entirely made of patches sewed together, and it hung in great folds around his enormous form. The dog, needless to say, seemed just like its master, a great lolloping thing with paws the size of a bear's. Art was used to big dogs, but she was a little nervous as it came bounding up to her. Mrs. Norris fled at the sight of the dog with a speed that Art wished she had. She couldn't possibly run away in time; she could only hope it wasn't ferocious.

"Fang!" She heard the man call just before the dog leapt up and planted both of its massive paws on her chest. Art barely managed to keep her balance, much less fend off the dog, but the dog was merely interested in sniffing her face and licking her with a long pink tongue before getting down and trotting back to its master with a silly grin on its face.

"Hagrid," Filch greeted the man indifferently, motioning to Art to come closer. "This is Miss Eldrige. She'll be helpin' yeh with the chores today."

Hagrid smiled warmly at Art, his black eyes gleaming from underneath gigantic furry eyebrows. "It's good teh meet yeh," he greeted her, shaking her hand vigorously. His hand alone engulfed not only Art's hand, but her entire forearm as well.

"Yeah, nice to meet you too." Art smiled back nervously, glad to finally see an open, friendly face.

"Well, I'll leave yeh to your business," Filch nodded his head slightly and turned back up the hill.

A little nervous at first as she watched him leave, Art only half listened as Hagrid explained what they would be doing. From what she heard, though, she gathered that they would be doing 'a bit of weeding' in the garden behind Hagrid's hut. That didn't sound too difficult.

"So, what's yer story?" Hagrid asked amiably as he led her around the house, stepping over a boulder-like rock with one stride.

Art picked her way over the rock as she replied, "Well, I used to be a farmer, but my parents sent me to get a job for my birthday and now I'm here."

"Birthday, eh? How old are yeh?"

"Twenty-one tomorrow, sir."

"Sir? Call me Hagrid. And let me be the first to wish yeh happy birthday then, Miss Eldrige."

Art smiled, "Thanks…but, um—you can just call me Art."

"Art? That short for something?"

Art was about to reply when she suddenly caught sight of the garden. She had expected carrots or lettuce or something normal, but instead she was faced with some sort of exotic plant that looked like a cross between a Venus fly-trap and a giant cabbage. "Are those…safe?" She asked in a small voice.

Hagrid laughed, completely at ease. "Oh, these? They wouldn't hurt a fly."

Art gave a nervous giggle. She didn't care about flies. She wanted to know if they would hurt her.

Gazing around, she realized that there were three rows of these plants, each row holding about six of these giant man-eating cabbages. "Um…Hagrid? How do we weed these?"

Hagrid tossed her a shovel. It had an abnormally long handle, but Art wondered if it would be long enough as she stared at the plants. They seemed to know that there were people around, because they started to gnash their fangs violently, rocking dangerously as they tried to reach for something to gnaw on. Art wondered what would happen if one happened to break loose. She could just imagine one of those cabbages rolling around the grounds and chasing innocent students and catching teachers unaware.

"Oh, it'll be no problem," Hagrid answered her question, picking up his own shovel. He jammed it into the soil just a few inches away from the roots of one of the plants, pulling up a clod of dirt to which was attached a small green weed. "Yeh just look for these and dig up as many as yeh can." He gave Art another demonstration, easily dodging the attacks of the cabbage-plant as he collected another weed, flicking it to the side with a deft move of the shovel.

Art tried to smile. It looked more like a grimace. However, she gave it a try, pushing her shovel into an area of dirt that was teeming with the little green weeds. She could hardly see how they posed any threat to the giant cabbages, especially when one of them grabbed onto the blade of her shovel, gnawing at it ferociously until she managed to pull it away. The end was pretty well mangled, but she carried on, determined to finish before dinner so that she could eat.

Of course, after a few hours of work, Art was aching and sore all over, and she had several sizeable gouges on her arms, courtesy the cabbage-plants. As the light began to fade from the sky, Art lost all hope of eating a warm meal and she started to hope desperately that Filch would at least save her something. She didn't even care if it was cold.

Hagrid seemed to notice her despair, and after a final shove at a particularly vicious cabbage, called to Art, "Well, 't looks like we're just 'bout finished. Why don't yeh give me yer shovel and yeh can come inside and have a bit of tea?"

Art gratefully accepted, dodging an attack from a mean-spirited cabbage and following Hagrid into his hut. She had lost all hope of dinner, and Hagrid didn't seem too interested in going inside the castle anyway. Perhaps he would be able to feed her something to sate her hunger.

Inside, Art realized there was only one room that served as everything from bedroom to kitchen, and she curiously looked around at everything as she sat down at a large wooden table. Fang, who had been dozing on the rug, got up and gave Art a casual welcome sniff before returning to his place in front of the fire, where Hagrid was hanging a kettle to boil.

"There yeh are, yeh rotten mutt. Thought yeh could get outta weedin' did yeh?" Hagrid laughed and scratched Fang's head as the dog whined pathetically. It seemed Art wasn't the only one afraid of Hagrid's cabbages.

Hagrid returned to the table and, smiling generously, offered Art a plate filled with what he called "little cakes."

Art picked up one of the gigantic sticky cakes, noticing that it was about the size of a large brick, and just about as heavy. She tried to bite into it, but decided against going that route when her teeth grated sharply against the dense, unyielding mass. Nibbling at the corners, Art realized that she wasn't going to get much nourishment here either. Still, she desperately gnawed at the monstrous block of food, her stomach empty and shrivelled as it was.

Hagrid watched her for a moment and laughed, taking a gigantic bite out of one of the cakes. "Yeh like it, do yeh? That's a family recipe, yes sir."

Art forced a smile, "Mmm, it's delicious!" She managed to scrape a little more off and chew it before swallowing and beginning the process again.

Getting up to tend to the kettle, Hagrid called back, "Well, if yeh like them yeh can take as many as yeh want." He approached once more and poured the hot water into mugs the size of large soup bowls. Handing Art hers, he sat down with a distant look in his eyes, "Not many people seem to like them as much as yeh do. Can't imagine why."

Art shook her head, "That's outrageous," she muttered in an appalled voice, taking a careful sip out of her mug. Apart from being scalding, the tea was fine, and she noticed that by alternating between the tea and the cake, she could hold the cake in her mouth and soften it a bit with a swig of tea. It only took her about an hour to diminish the size of the cake by half, but by then she had drained two cups of tea, and she was feeling the need to return back to the castle.

"Well," she finally said during a lull in their conversation, "I should probably be heading back. I don't want to keep Filch waiting."

Hagrid nodded, "Of course. Filch may be alright when he's in a good mood, but he's a bloody great nuisance when he's angry."

Art agreed wholeheartedly, remembering how Filch had been during her first encounter with him. And he had barely been annoyed that time. She couldn't imagine him when he was truly angry.

Just as she was leaving, Hagrid handed her a small cloth-wrapped package. Confused, Art unwrapped it just enough to catch sight of another of those cakes. She smiled up at Hagrid, grateful for the thought, if not so much for the actual gift. "Thanks."

"No problem. Come back fer more anytime!" He waved as she made her way back up the steep slope.

It was difficult to pick her way to the castle in the dark, but Art managed it in fairly decent time, and she sighed with relief as she entered her room.

"Eldrige!" Filch's exclamation made Art drop Hagrid's package, which landed painfully on her foot.

"Yessir?" Art replied hastily as she picked up the cake and set it on her desk.

"You're late again." Filch seemed to notice her cabbage-induced injuries just then, and his tone softened a bit. "Well, that's alright. Yeh still have time for one more job. This one should be no trouble; it's just cleaning some of the cauldrons they use in Potions class. Yeh can clean those and then head for the hospital wing and get Madame Pomfrey to take a look at some of those scrapes yeh got there."

Art noticed with a sharp pain one particularly large gash in her arm as Filch said that. She also noticed that he had said she could go to the hospital wing _after_ she cleaned cauldrons. Well, at least she knew where the hospital wing was. She had taken great care to remember that place, just in case something happened to her. "Alright," she sighed. "Where's the Potion's classroom?"

"Oh it's down in the dungeons. Just look for Professor Snape."

Art dropped the bucket of cleaning items she had just picked up. "Who?"

"Professor Snape. He's the Potions Master. Didn't yeh know that?"

Art gulped, "Now I do."

"Good. Yeh can go find him and he'll tell you what to do."

"Don't the house elves usually clean up things like that?" Art attempted to dodge this particular assignment.

Filch cast her a penetrating glare, "No. They're too afraid of the dungeons. Now get."

Art left with a doomed feeling, feeling Filch's eyes on the back of her head. She nearly tripped over Mrs. Norris, who merely meowed in a low, accusing tone, gazing up at her with big yellow eyes. Picking her way carefully down the stairs, Art could feel the atmosphere around her slowly decreasing in warmth and light. She knew she was in the dungeons when the stairs ended and she found herself in a dim, cold corridor decorated only with dark pictures and rusted suits of armour. It all looked so menacing, Art half expected something scary to jump out at her. Nothing did, but a few students cast her glares as they meandered past, clearly wondering what someone like Art was doing down in the dungeons so late.

Finally, after wandering around nervously, hoping she wouldn't find the Potions classroom, Art saw an open door and peered in. The large chamber was lit by a solitary torch on the wall, which cast its flickering light on the tables within, lighting them with a sinister glow. She assumed that this must be a classroom, and she entered carefully, approaching what appeared to be the front of the room.

There, by a single desk covered with neatly piled stacks of paper and quills, Art found a towering pile of cauldrons that were encrusted with some putrid smelling substance that looked as though it had once been liquid. She had just barely reached out to investigate the mess further when a voice called her out of her thoughts, making her start violently.

"Ah. I see Filch thought it necessary to send you."

Art turned to face the source of the denigrating voice: Snape. "Um…Filch told me you needed help cleaning these cauldrons." She waved a hand at the precariously stacked cauldrons.

By the look on Snape's face, Art immediately knew she had said the wrong thing.

"If by 'help,' you mean that you clean while I go in my office and do something far more important," he stated in an icy voice, "then, yes, you would be correct."

Art shrunk under his withering glare, noting that he seemed to have caught sight of the multiple tears in her clothes and flesh.. She shuddered at the thought of what she must look like. Fortunately, he did not mention it, walking past her and through another door without another word.

Art began scrubbing with vigour, determined to get out of that room as soon as possible. However, nothing seemed to work, and although she tried everything, even mixing certain cleaning supplies from her bucket (some producing chemical reactions that nearly choked her), Art was still working on the first cauldron two and a half hours later when Snape strode from his office. She hoped he would walk by and not take note of how far she had gotten, but she knew he had noticed when she heard his pace slow and felt his presence directly behind her.

"You…" He seemed unable to utter anything else for a few moments. Finally he stated in an incredulous voice (which sounded a lot like his angry voice…and his bored voice), "You haven't finished a single cauldron?"

Art turned to face him, feeling her face flush, "No," she replied softly, not daring to look up directly at him.

There was a long silence before he sighed. "Get out. I can see I'll have to do this myself."

Art stood up slowly, watching as he drew his wand, pointed it at the cauldrons and muttered something. She barely had time to glance at the pile before a sudden glow illuminated the whole room and blinded her momentarily. Blinking, she peered at what had once been a heap of dirty cauldrons. They were now neatly organized in rows and immaculate stacks, completely devoid of any stain whatsoever.

"How…?" Art couldn't help but voice her amazement. He had done in seconds what she couldn't do with weeks of labour.

The Potions Master cast her an arch look. "Magic," he replied haughtily before disappearing into another room.

As Art left, she realized that she couldn't have felt worse than she had when he looked at her that way. That expression had held so much in it: malice, dislike, even loathing. What had she done to deserve that? The thing that had hurt the most was the fact that he believed she was truly useless.

It was then that Art realized that she had changed her mind about the giant man-eating cabbages. In fact, at that moment she wouldn't mind if one escaped and decided to chase Professor Snape. Yes, Art smiled, she liked that idea a lot.

_Alright. Yay! One more chapter finished. Please review; we can't stand behind you and watch you read to see what you liked and didn't like, so you've got to tell us._


	3. Transition

_Alright, here's chapter 3. I stayed up very late to write this, so read it, please._

Madame Pomfrey turned out to be a motherly looking witch with a kind, but stern disposition. She made it clear to Art that she would tolerate no rule-breaking in her infirmary, but when she saw that Art was clearly too timid, not to mention exhausted, to try anything funny, she turned her attention to Art's wounds. She didn't seem to think they were very bad, and she healed them rather quickly, but when she looked Art over again, she decided to let her stay overnight. The girl looked exhausted, and this was a good way to let her sleep in a few hours.

Art protested, not wanting to make a bad impression, but Madame Pomfrey insisted. As she settled down under the white covers, Art felt only slightly guilty as her exhaustion engulfed her.

She woke in the morning feeling refreshed, if a bit groggy because she had overslept, and with a final ok from Madame Pomfrey, Art made her way back to her room. She found a pleasant surprise on her bed: a large trunk which she opened to reveal all of her things from home. Art sighed with relief, glancing down at her poor emaciated travelling bag. She had been just about to run out of changes of clothes.

Unpacking what things she could by filling up the drawers and covering her desk with nameless odds and ends, Art stuffed the rest of her things back into the trunk and shoved it under the bed. She noticed with particular pleasure that her parents had sent her a letter amidst all the things congratulating her on her job and begging her to write them often. A slight twinge of sorrow pierced her heart as she thought of being so far from home, and she sat down, ready to write back immediately.

Filch had other things on his mind.

"Eldrige!" He exclaimed, bursting into the room, Mrs. Norris hot on his heels.

Art jumped up, "Yes sir?"

"Come on, yeh layabout. It's time to work out on the grounds."

"Not more cabbages!" Art inhaled sharply.

"Er…" Filch's expression was clearly stunned, "No. You'll be trimming the roses with Professor Sprout."

"Oh," Art laughed nervously, glad to have the prospects of a cabbage-less day.

"You'll be helping Hagrid with the rest of those cabbages later," Filch added with a grin. Even he could not help teasing Art a bit.

Fortunately, trimming roses was easy work, but it took quite a while, and by the time Art trudged her way to Hagrid's hut, she found the man already finishing the weeding. Feeling a little guilty, she asked if there was anything else she could help with, but Hagrid waved off her offers to help with a laugh, although he did invite her in for tea. She accepted happily, having an interesting conversation with him, although she was burdened again by another inedible cake.

Finally picking her way back up to the castle, Art felt a wave of elation when Filch found her and informed her that it was time for dinner. So grateful to eat, she realized that she hadn't consumed any real food since the previous morning. Despite this, she still only managed to eat a small part of the food before her, considering that by the second course she was completely stuffed. She was nervous that Filch would find other work for her after dinner, but that proved to be a vain fear. It seemed that the only work she would usually be doing that late would be in the dungeons, considering that every Tuesday evening was the regular time during which that particularly unwelcoming part of the castle was cleaned.

Art went to bed with the satisfaction that she might actually be able to handle this job. There was still one nagging doubt, however, that lingered in her mind. What would happen next week when she had to clean the dungeons again? It was obvious that the tasks down there might pose quite a bit more of a challenge to her, and Professor Snape didn't seem to have any patience for mistakes. Art pushed away these worries with the thought that Filch might be able to clean down there. Perhaps Snape would judge her too incompetent after last night and request that she remain far away from the dungeons. She would gladly trade any job Filch had to avoid going back down into that dark place. She didn't ever want to go back…

x…x

Unfortunately, Art realized that she would have to deal with Professor Snape, even without going into the dungeons. She found this out the hard way a few days later, when she was sent to dust the staff room. Entering nervously because she didn't want to disturb any teachers, Art noticed several chairs lined up against one wall, a bookshelf against the opposite wall, and a long table in the middle of the room. Thinking she was alone, Art started to clean.

She began to dust off the shelves of books and was pretty far done when she suddenly heard a page turn behind her. Turning slowly, Art realized with sudden dread that indeed there was somebody else in the room and that it was none other than Professor Snape. He looked up from his book at that moment, eyeing Art carefully.

"You," he stated simply.

"Hello," Art stated in a whisper, hoping he would leave her alone.

He merely turned back to his book, flipping boredly to another page and making a tiny note in the margin. Art resumed cleaning, speeding up her work so that she could get out of the room as soon as possible. However, she had to reorganize some of the jumbled books, which made a bit of noise, and pretty soon she could feel Snape's hostile gaze on her back.

"What are you doing?" He finally asked.

Art turned carefully around, smiling nervously, "Cleaning?"

"Stop making so much noise," he snapped, returning his attention to the book.

Art tried to be quieter, but her hands were shaking, and it was only a matter of time before she dropped a heavy book onto the floor with a thud. She winced, feeling that deadly gaze return to her. When she heard Snape's book snap shut, Art knew she was in for it.

"Quinn?" Snape finally addressed her.

"Yes sir?" She turned to face him.

"Sit." He uttered the single syllable with venom dripping from each letter.

"But I'm clean—"

"Sit, damn it!"

Art sat at the far end of the table.

"Why do you find it necessary to disturb me? Everywhere I go, you follow me like a plague. Is it even worth the trouble to ask you to desist?"

Art didn't know how to reply. She merely hung her head. "Sorry, sir."

He huffed, glaring at her for a long time before he resumed the perusal of his book. Not looking up, he ordered in a commanding voice, "Now leave. You may return when I have long gone."

Art obeyed promptly. She didn't notice the slight smile on his face. He seemed to enjoy pushing her around.

x…x

"Eldrige, it's Tuesday. Get movin'." The bucket clunked heavily down on top of the letter Art had been writing to her parents.

She looked up helplessly at Filch. "Please don't make me go back down there, sir," Art begged. "I can't stand it."

"I told yeh to get," Filch growled, in a bad mood since three second-years had binged out on candy and thrown up in the hallway earlier that afternoon.

"But sir—"

"Go!"

Art hastily exited her room, bucket in hand, completely defeated. She considered running away at that point, but something made her keep her course for the dungeons. She couldn't imagine the disappointment her parents would have if she quit. It took her a few moments to realize that she had arrived at the room, and when she did, it took her even longer to build up the courage to actually open the door.

Entering the room with dread, Art found Professor Snape actually at his desk in the classroom. It appeared as though he was writing something, scribbling away furiously at a piece of parchment. There were several like that already scattered across the desk, filled with the same tiny, cramped handwriting that was steadily filling up the page he was working on at the moment. Art couldn't help but be amazed at the speed at which he worked.

As if just barely noticing her presence, he looked up, took a moment to glower at her, and then went straight back to work. "Sit," he waved the end of his quill in her general direction.

Art assumed that this meant that he would take care of her in a minute, so she sat in a vacant chair, leaning against the table in front of her. She looked around the room curiously, trying to ignore the dread that threatened to explode within her. Her eyes were drawn back to the desk at which Snape sat. He was still scratching at the parchment, his speed undiminished. Art could feel her hand cramping up just watching him. She would never have been able to write so much at such a furious pace. Then again, she had never been that much of a scholar.

As the minutes ticked by, Art wondered how much longer he was going to be at it. Watching somebody write, no matter how fast, wasn't particularly fascinating, and Art's dread began to diminish into something similar to boredom.

As though reading her mind, Snape suddenly looked up, "If you must know, this is a rather important discovery I've made on the properties of Hornswaggler venom. It will be a few more minutes before I am done."

"Okay," Art replied in a quiet, abashed voice. She silently waited, determined to be the paragon of patience.

After several minutes, Snape finally dropped his quill, staring at the papers and slowly gathering them together before he looked up at Art and seemed to realize that he still had more work to do. "So…you've returned. Do tell me how you are going to plague me with your existence today."

"Um…Filch told me to come down here…I'm supposed to clean…I think."

A soft hissing noise escaped him as he scoffed her, "You think?" He placed his hands together in front of his face, touching the edges of both his forefingers to his mouth, "Well, _I_ think that you have difficulty with even the smallest chores, much less the tasks that await you here."

Art looked down at her hands, clenched in her lap. Her face burned and her eyes stung, only mirroring how small and awkward she felt inside. Why did he have to be so cruel?

"However," his voice had suddenly changed, and soft footsteps warned her that he was approaching. "You may prove yourself useful. That is, if you can find it possible to learn anything."

Art looked up at him. He was now standing directly in front of her, glaring down at her from his superior position. "What do you mean? Are you—are you going to teach me something?"

"Perhaps," he replied, still gazing at her. It wasn't a hostile look like before, but calculating. It still sent chills down Art's spine, causing her to look down again.

"Perhaps?" She asked quietly.

"Have you had any magical education whatsoever?"

"I…I taught myself, sir, from books I found lying around the house."

"Ah," his voice immediately became haughty. "I see. And just what exactly did you teach yourself?"

"Um…well…"

"Can you disarm an opponent?"

"No."

"Can you shield yourself from attack?"

"Um…no."

The questions began to come faster as Snape became more impatient. "Can you hex, jinx, or curse someone?"

"No."

"What about transfiguring objects?"

"I can move them," Art offered, hoping to earn a few points that way. She was ignored.

"Can you perform illusions?"

"I don't think so…I could try."

"No. I know I will regret asking, but can you brew a simple potion?"

"Yes," Art was pleased to answer in the affirmative for once.

"Oh?" He seemed sceptical. Art was reminded that this was supposedly his field of training. "What sorts?"

"Um…" Art suddenly became very uneasy. "I—I don't remember."

"You…don't remember?" The tone was dubious.

"No."

Snape seemed to be finished. "Well you obviously can't even perform a simple cleaning charm." He paused and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Alright, we'll start with that. Let's see if you are competent at _some_thing."

He drew his wand, rolling it absently between his fingers as he sized Art up. It seemed as though he was expecting something from her, but he hadn't voiced any suggestions. Finally, he exhaled exasperatedly, "Your wand."

"Oh!" Art fumbled for it, managing to pull it from her pocket with little difficulty.

It seemed for a moment as though Snape had decided that it was not worth it, but after a moment, he regained control and turned his attention back to Art. "Alright. Do you see those books on that table over there?"

Art looked in the direction he was pointing and clearly saw the untidy stack of books. "Yes."

"My third year students have difficulty putting things away neatly. Can you do it?"

"Okay," Art replied, a little confused. She stood up, walked over to the table, and carefully began to organize the books.

"Stop!" The Potions Master seemed somewhat irritated. Art couldn't imagine why.

"What?"

"Sit!" He pointed at her original chair. She returned to it and sat. "Do it with magic!" He hissed.

"I don't know how to," Art admitted, full of shame.

"That is why I am going to _teach_ you!"

Art remained silent while the professor calmed down. That proved to be a very wise decision.

After a few moments, Snape cleared his throat, "Now, you are going to have to use the words _esse iubere_. However," he added quickly, before Art could do anything, "you have to see what you want to happen before it happens."

"I won't see it until it happens, Professor," Art stated timidly.

"See it in your _mind_," he replied irately, "Imagine it."

Art stared at the books. She wished that they would be neat. She raised her wand, but as soon as she did that, Snape trapped it against the table.

"What are you doing?"

"I was going to try it," Art looked up at him with confusion, wondering why he seemed so determined to stop her.

"Not yet," he stated firmly. "You must know how to use your wand. It is still unfamiliar to you."

At that moment, Art realized just how long this 'lesson' was going to be. After a detailed lecture on how to hold a wand and use it without flourishing it too much while at the same time making sure that one's movements remained fluid and balanced and avoiding any jerking, Art felt ready to give up. There was too much information in her head already, and she hadn't even tried the spell!

At last, several minutes later, Snape decided it was alright for her to try. Nervously raising her wand, Art aimed at the books. She tried to imagine them, nicely stacked and neat, but she kept thinking about that cold gaze she could feel boring through the back of her head. She opened her mouth to say the words, but nothing came out. Finally Art dropped her wand, "I can't do it," she stated simply.

"What?" A dark, menacing tone escaped the man's mouth.

"I can't. It's too…It's too difficult."

Snape stared at her for a long time. For once, Art didn't break the gaze, staring back. After what seemed like eternity, he replied, "Very well. You are of no further use here."

Art took that as a dismissal, especially after he turned away, so she quickly gathered her things and left. Her head spun, and as she dropped exhaustedly into bed, she wondered what exactly had come over the professor, why he had tried to be somewhat helpful…

Only a few minutes later, the irate Potions Master was summoned to the Headmaster's office. He stalked through the hallways, determined not to crack. This time the Headmaster had asked too much of him. Entering the round chamber, Snape approached the desk at which Dumbledore was seated.

"Yes, Headmaster?"

"Ah, Severus, it is good to see you."

"Please spare me the trivialities, Headmaster. You wished to see me?"

"Of course. How did your…ah…lesson go with Miss Eldrige?"

Snape skipped to the item of business that he wanted to get to. "I refuse to try. This was a bad idea from the beginning."

"Come now, Severus, give the girl a chance. She has wonderful potential."

"Hardly," Snape scoffed.

"You aren't trying."

"She gave up!"

Dumbledore sighed and took off his spectacles, rubbing them off with the hem of his sleeve before replacing them and looking patiently at Snape. "Give her another chance. You have to be patient with her."

Snape glowered at him, "You know I don't like her."

"Yes, you have informed me of your…feelings for her."

"Then you understand how difficult this is for me."

"Yes."

"And you are still asking me to teach her?"

"Yes."

There was a tense silence during which both men stared at each other, testing the other's strength. Finally, Snape crumbled, "Fine." He turned away, determined to end the conversation as quickly as possible.

"Severus," Dumbledore called to him, causing him to halt for a moment in front of the door.

"What?"

"Have patience."

The dark-haired man growled, almost slamming the door as he exited. He retained enough control to refrain from doing that, however, waiting until he had returned to the dungeons before slamming the door to his office and dropping exhaustedly into a chair. He loathed teaching.

_Hahaha. There you go. Hope you liked!_


	4. Assignment

_Ah, well here's the beginning of something very...interesting. Here you go._

"Headmaster, are you sure this is appropriate?" McGonagall seemed worried as she paced in front of Dumbledore's desk. "Surely you can see how much he despises her."

"Minerva, please, calm down."

"How can I? Just look at the way he treats her! She would be so much happier—they both would—if you would put an end to these extra lessons!"

"There is an explanation, Minerva. If you will kindly let me speak…" Dumbledore waited for silence.

McGonagall reluctantly quieted and looked expectantly at Dumbledore. "Why did you do this, Headmaster?"

"Miss Eldrige needed to learn magic. Severus needs to learn how to get along with others. Especially with Miss Eldrige."

"It has been several weeks, sir! It's nearly the winter holidays! Clearly you can see that it is not working? He still loathes her."

"Minerva, he hardly loathes her. It is a matter of emotions, yes, but the fact is that Severus merely needs to sort through several of his conflicting feelings."

"I still don't see how he could feel so strongly about her, sir." McGonagall began pacing again. "She's a decent young woman, after all; she poses absolutely no threat to him, yet he treats her as a rival. Can you imagine, Miss Eldrige a threat to him?" The idea made her laugh.

"I believe, Minerva, that it has nothing to do with Miss Eldrige at all." Dumbledore spoke softly in a serious tone, "You see, when one loses someone they care dearly about, it is difficult to forget them, and any…" he paused, searching for the right phrase, "…any reminder of that person can upset them greatly. It is my opinion that Miss Eldrige may remind Severus of someone he cared about. Someone he lost."

McGonagall could only reply with one doubting phrase. "He actually cared about someone?"

"Yes, very much so. And perhaps, with a little help from us, he might come to terms with this loss." He smiled up at McGonagall, "You see, it is a perfect arrangement."

x...x

"Quinn! Every second-year knows how to perform a disarming spell! How is it, then, that you could bungle it up?" Snape picked himself up off the ground, running a shaking white hand through his dark hair. He knew this had been a bad idea, but it was too late to back out now.

"I don't know! I—I just…I did it the way you told me to!" Art nearly burst into tears, all her pent-in frustration welling up until she lost her calm façade.

"Obviously not," Snape approached, warily pointing his wand in her direction. "If you had done it the way I told you to, you would have disarmed me, not set me on fire!"

Art whimpered pathetically, hoping that he wouldn't ask her to try again. This was her fourth attempt, and she had already destroyed a desk, put a hole in the wall, doused Snape in snails, and—most recently—set his robes on fire.

He glared at her, his expression daring her to mess up a fifth time. "Try again."

Wincing, Art raised her wand. She could barely bring herself to look at him. "_Expelliarmus_!" Art closed her eyes just as a bolt of red light escaped the end of her wand. Hearing nothing—no shouting, no crashing, not even cursing—she peeked nervously. "Did it work?"

Snape stood, immobile, and for a moment she was worried she had petrified him. He moved the slightest bit, however, and finally stated in low, menacing tones, "If I had not blocked your spell, it probably would have decimated everything in the vicinity, including me." He didn't seem quite as mad this time, though, and his voice was calm as he instructed her after a moment's pause, "Try again. This time don't flourish your wand so much." He halted and then sneered slightly, "You might actually get it this time."

Art grimaced, but did as he said. "_Expelliarmus!_" She didn't close her eyes this time, and she watched in fascination as the red light hit him square in the chest, knocking him backward and sending his wand flying in a graceful arc. It landed with a slight clatter on a table.

"That was…decent," Snape murmured as he picked himself up again, locating his wand and picking that up too. "Shall we try again, or are you finished, Quinn?"

"Um…I think I'm done for now," Art replied in a shaky voice, still surprised that it had actually worked. She had been practising this spell for days on her own and now, finally, it had been successful.

"An intelligent decision," Snape stated softly, brushing past her on his way to his desk. Art's lessons had moved to his office, a dark room surrounded with shelves stocked with jars of pickled…things. It intimidated her, especially when she noticed one particular jar filled with something that seemed to be watching her. She stayed away from that corner of the office, focusing her attention on Snape, who had sat down at his desk and was now writing something on a small piece of parchment. As she watched, he folded the paper and put it aside, suddenly looking back up at her, as if he was confused that she was still there.

"This lesson is at an end. You may go now, Quinn."

Art realized that she had just been staring at him, and she lowered her gaze abashedly, mumbling some incoherent phrase as she turned to leave. Something caught her attention just then, and she turned back around, asking in a nervous voice, "Um…Professor?"

"What?" Snape looked up impatiently.

"Why do you call me 'Quinn'?" She inquired, wanting to know how he had figured out her middle name and why he was using it.

He sighed exasperatedly. Did he need a reason? "Because I don't like your first name and I don't like your last name…in fact, I don't particularly like the name 'Quinn' all that much either, but it's better than the other two." He paused before asking, "Are you satisfied?"

"I…think so?" Art replied timidly before hurriedly dashing out the door. She was so very confused, especially when she thought of the look on his face when she had actually completed the spell correctly. It had been surprised, but for a fleeting moment, Art wondered if she had seen something else, something resembling approval…

x...x

"And if it doesn't work, Headmaster?" McGonagall still had her doubts. What if Dumbledore's plan did not go as he hoped?

Dumbledore smiled patiently at McGonagall, "Oh, I have the perfect remedy for that, too."

"Really? And what is that?"

"You'll see, Minerva." And that was all the Headmaster could be convinced to disclose of his plan at the present time.

x...x

"You wished to speak to me, Headmaster?" Snape carefully prowled through the doorway, approaching the headmaster's desk.

"Ah, Severus. I've been meaning to speak to you for quite some time now." Dumbledore smiled and pushed a small bowl filled with some strange sort of sweet across his desk.

Snape declined the offer. "And?"

"You see, the winter holidays are approaching, and I have been thinking. We have been rather lax with our curriculum in potion brewing, wouldn't you agree?"

Snape seemed to agree very much. He had been prodding the headmaster to let him teach some of the more difficult potions. "Yes, sir."

"Well, I figured that perhaps it is time to allow the students more choices in this study. However, several of the herbs and ingredients needed for these potions can only be found in the highlands of Romania. These herbs are rather…expensive in the market, but if you would like, I have arranged for you to travel to Romania and gather some of these herbs."

Ecstatic at the prospect of leaving the school for a few weeks, Snape readily agreed, "Of course, sir."

"Good, good," Dumbledore rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a folded list, scanning it briefly. "Now, you may not recognize some of the herbs on this list, but I've arranged for somebody else to travel with you. She will be able to identify any herbs that you are unable to."

A bit put off at the questioning of his authority on herbs, Snape scowled, "If you mean Sprout, I refuse to take that…bubbly fool with me. She's too…cheerful."

"Oh no, Severus, I would hardly think to send her with you. She's far too busy taking care of the plants here. I was meaning to send young Artemis with you. She knows more about plants than you would think."

It took Snape a second to register the name 'Artemis' and put it to a face. When he did, his expression darkened exceedingly. "What?" His voice dropped a couple of octaves, and his eyes narrowed.

Dumbledore smiled, "Don't worry, Severus. She will stay out of your way. It would be a good experience for you both, anyway." He tilted his head to the side, trying to read Snape's expression. "So, will you do it?"

Snape went through a series of conflicting emotions just then. On one hand, he desperately wanted to brew new potions, but on the other hand, he cringed at the thought of being trapped in the wild with the witless wonder for the holidays. "Are you sure I cannot go alone?"

"Hardly, Severus. That wouldn't be advisable. You either take Miss Eldrige, or you stay and teach…oh, how did you put it…'remedial potions'?"

Growling, Snape finally answered, "Fine. I'll take the girl. But she stays out of my way, and follows my orders, or else I come straight back and leave her in the forest."

Dumbledore nodded, "Very well. I leave it up to you to tell Miss Eldrige."

"What?" Snape's eyes widened briefly. "Sir, I—"

"You may go now." Dumbledore dismissed the man, ignoring his protests. His plan was going extraordinarily well. He only hoped that the experience wouldn't scar Miss Eldrige too much…

x...x

"Quinn!"

Art started, hurriedly jumping to her feet, "I wasn't sleeping!" She slurred tiredly, rubbing her sore eyes. It took her a moment to realize that it was not Filch who had awakened her. It was Snape, and he looked irritated.

"Shut up. I have news for you." He quickly got to the point, standing beside Art's desk.

She noticed that he was looking at the surface of her desk in an attempt to avoid her gaze, and she hastily wiped the drool from off the wood. She couldn't help that she had gotten tired and fallen asleep while writing a letter to her parents.

"Quinn, the headmaster has requested that you go to Romania over the winter break."

"Romania? Why?"

"To collect herbs. It will take several days."

Art was shocked. Why was she being sent to pick herbs in Romania? "Alone?"

Snape's expression darkened visibly. "No. You will be accompanying me."

Art suddenly had the impulse to commit violent suicide. "What? Go to Romania with you?"

Snape scoffed, "Look, there are several other things I'd rather be doing as well. However, this is necessary, so let's just get it over with, alright?"

Art nodded, "Alright."

"Good. We will leave in a few days, so pack your things." Eager to leave, Snape made for the door, but as he touched the knob, he turned, "Oh, and I have a few ground rules for you. Don't do anything unless I say you may. Don't speak unless I tell you that you may speak. Don't touch anything. Don't breathe on anything. In fact, don't breathe at all. Do you understand?"

Bewildered, Art finally nodded. "Okay."

"Wonderful." Snape's tone indicated that he did not really mean that everything would be wonderful. In fact, if she had been judging by only his voice, she would have gotten the impression that he couldn't wait for their expedition to end. The saddest part was that it hadn't even begun…

_There, now you know...well, that Art's going to Romania at least. Oh no. What dread things shall happen there? ...Don't ask me; I don't know yet._


	5. Romania

_Well, usually we're all excited and ready to wake up on the morning we leave to go somewhere far away. Art doesn't agree._

"Alright, Eldrige, are yeh ready?" Filch reached for Art's bag, which she had packed the night before. She huddled miserably under the blankets, not wanting to leave the warm, comforting indent in her mattress. It was so welcoming, and the outside world was a hostile, inhospitable place at that particular moment.

Finally sitting up, Art blinked and looked out the frosted window. She realized with a start that it wasn't even light outside. Why was Filch waking her up so early? "Um…sir? What time is it?"

"Four forty-five. Professor Snape said he wanted to get an early start. He's already waiting outside."

"Waiting? Outside?" Those two words hit Art like a load of Hagrid's brick-cakes. It was icy and bleak outside, and if Snape had been waiting out there for long, she was sure that his mood wasn't any warmer than the temperature.

Leaping from bed, she hastily dressed, stuck her toothbrush in her mouth, pulled on her shoes and cloak, and raced for the door. During this surprisingly speedy feat, Filch had dragged Art's bag out into the hallway, and when he saw her hastily trot down the corridor, he followed, grumbling about the weight of her bag. "Slow down, Eldrige! Professor Snape's been out there for an hour! He can wait a few more minutes."

Art ground to a halt. "An _HOUR_?" She shrieked. "He's going to murder me!" She picked up her pace, racing through the corridors like a streak of lightning. She wouldn't have been surprised if she had broken the sound barrier.

Dragging the heavy front door open, Art dashed outside into the frigid cold and skidded across the icy stairs. She slipped on a patch of rather slippery ice, fell with a bump on her backside, and slid backwards down the stairs, coming to a halt at the feet of a very frozen, impatient professor.

He looked down at her from above the folds of his black cloak, "Ah, you finally made it, Quinn." His voice was indeed cold enough to freeze the blood in her veins.

"Sorry, sir; I didn't know you were waiting for me!" Art tried to stand, slipping again and reaching out for something to hold her up. Her hands clutched the front of Snape's cloak, and she pulled herself up, suddenly finding her face in very close proximity to the professor's.

He detached her hands from his cloak, grimacing at her as he watched her try to keep her balance. Was it possible for somebody to be so uncoordinated?

Just when Art thought she had steadied herself, Filch appeared huffing on the stairs, a scowl besmirching his face. "Eldrige!" He wheezed.

Art jumped and fell again.

"I've had enough of this," Snape muttered, picking Art up by the back of her cloak. He held her like this even when she was back on her feet, carrying her down the narrow path toward the exit to the school grounds. "Now that you've been so kind as to grace us with your presence, it's time to go."

Art stared at the undisturbed snowfall from last night. It was about knee deep and very cold, soaking through her boots. "Um, we aren't going to walk all the way, are we?"

Snape scoffed incredulously, "Of course not. We will be disapparating as soon as we get off the school grounds. Filch!" He called back.

"Yes sir?" The man took a step forward, still carrying Art's bag.

"Hurry up. I'd like to leave before daybreak." He held out his wand, the end of which was glowing, lighting their way in the dim pre-dawn light.

After several cold, silent moments filled only with the sound of crunching snow and the whistling wind that tore through their layers of clothing, they finally stopped outside the gates to the school grounds. Snape finally let go of Art's cloak, trusting that she could stand on her own, and he motioned for Filch to give her back her bag. Art took it, surprised at how heavy it was, nearly falling again. Snape, however, cast her a warning look, and she managed to stay on her feet.

"I assume you've never disapparated before," he drawled, looking Art over.

"N-no, sir."

"Well then hold onto me. Don't let go for anything, do you understand?"

Art nodded nervously. She wasn't sure quite what to hold onto, and sensing her hesitation, Snape impatiently drew her tightly against him with an arm.

"Take my waist," he growled into her ear, making sure they both had everything they would need.

Art wrapped her arms reluctantly around his waist, not sure she liked being this close to him. She closed her eyes tightly and suddenly felt a gust of icy air. A strange sensation overcame her at that moment, defying all description. It felt as though something with immense force was trying to squeeze Art through a tiny opening. It was somewhat uncomfortable and even a little painful, and she clung with desperation to Snape. Strangely enough, he also tightened his grip on her, and for a split-second Art thought that it was kind of a nice, snug feeling. Of course, just as she thought this, their feet touched solid ground and Snape let go almost immediately.

The force of their landing knocked Art off her feet again, and Snape had to reach down and help her up. Looking around, Art realized that they had landed in a small copse of trees just outside what appeared to be a small village. As always, Snape seemed to know what to do, and he took charge, guiding Art forcefully into the village and toward a tiny cottage near the end. He knocked on the door, which was answered by a petit, gnarled old woman. They exchanged a few words, too quietly for Art to hear, although she saw the woman point in a certain direction and hand Snape what looked like a key.

Turning away, Snape took Art by the shoulder of her cloak and dragged her through what appeared to be the town square. Art tried to pick out which small building they would be staying in, but Snape seemed uninterested in all of them. When they entered the forest again, Art suddenly realized that they wouldn't be staying in the town.

Trudging over a snow-covered path, it was another mile of walking before Art caught sight of a small building nestled between two tall pines. As they approached it, she saw that it was a cottage, much like the old woman's: tiny, built of stone with a thatched roof, with only one window in the front, the glass frosted over.

Snape unlocked the door, opening it and waiting for Art to go inside before he closed the door again and locked it. Lighted only by a tiny shaft of dim light that came through the window, Art realized that there was only one room inside. Once Snape had set his things down, he pointed his wand at the fireplace and sent a burst of light toward it, effectively lighting a fire. This gave Art a better opportunity to look around and she saw that half the room was occupied by a bed and a nightstand, the other half dedicated to an ancient wood-burning stove, a sink, and counters with drawers filled with various kitchen utensils. A wooden trapdoor in the ground revealed an icebox underneath, in which was piled a small amount of food, just enough for two people to survive on for a fortnight or so.

Looking at the back wall of the round cottage, Art noticed a door. She wondered what was behind it, if anything, and she curiously opened it. Looking within, Art saw that it connected a small byre to the cottage, fitted with a single stall in case the resident of the cottage needed a place to put their horse. It was warm and filled with a large pile of clean hay and even a bag of feed nuts. Feeling a twinge of bitter loneliness and longing for home, Art picked up the bag of nuts with a bit of difficulty, opening it and smelling the familiar smell. She even plucked a few from the bag and ate them, sighing. She hadn't tasted something so familiar in what seemed ages. Art's stomach growled, and she suddenly realized that she hadn't eaten anything since dinner the previous night.

Walking back into the cottage, Art saw Snape organizing various papers and things on a small desk on the bedroom side of the room, so she decided to take the initiative and make herself breakfast. She found a small basket of eggs in the icebox, as well as a side of bacon, so she decided that those would do. Rummaging for the necessary utensils, Art finally found a pan and managed to light a fire in the stove. She waited for the pan to get hot before placing slices of the bacon carefully on it. They sizzled and crackled, soon filling the small room with the delicious aroma of breakfast. Sitting in a nearby chair, Art closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth.

She didn't notice that she had drifted off until a sudden clatter and a simultaneous cry alerted Art to a problem. Sitting up, she caught the offending odour of burnt meat, and came face to face with a very angry professor.

"What is this?" He exclaimed, waving a hand through the smoke and staring at the neat rows of black crisps on the pan.

"Oh no!" Art cried desperately, immediately rushing to the stove. "Now I have to start all over again!"

Snape pushed her away, "I don't think so, Quinn. Food poisoning is not on the menu. _I'll_ handle breakfast."

Disappointed that she had ruined her chance at redeeming herself, Art sat back in her chair and sulked. She noticed ruefully that he had no problem cooking the bacon to perfection, lightly crisped and caramelized on the edges. Of course, when he started to make the eggs, Art felt it necessary to intervene.

"Professor, I want scrambled eggs."

"Sorry. I'm cooking and I want them sunny-side up."

Art tried to stifle a peal of laughter. She was unsuccessful.

"What?" He asked in a dangerous tone.

Art immediately stopped laughing. "Er…nothing, Professor." She couldn't help but mutter under her breath, "I didn't know you liked your food...er...sunny."

Snape pretended not to hear.

Determined to have scrambled eggs, Art sidled up to the stove, waiting until Snape seemed somewhat distracted before shoving the end of her wand into the half cooked eggs and stirring them around.

"!!" Snape exclaimed in shock. "Quinn!" He whirled angrily on her.

"Um, Professor, you don't want your eggs to burn." She smiled nervously and licked the end of her wand clean.

Snape growled, but resumed his position at the stove, warily guarding the food from any more attacks.

As soon as the eggs were done, Snape threw a few slices of bread on the pan, waiting for them to brown on each side before tossing them onto the two plates on the counter. "There," he hissed, dropping Art's plate into her lap. She barely managed to keep the eggs from sliding off onto her lap, but she was unable to keep the toast (which she noticed was slightly burnt) from dropping crumbs all over her.

"Thanks," she muttered quietly, not daring to thank the professor out loud for fear that he would attack her in his foul mood.

"You're welcome," he replied in a dark voice, taking care to glare at her for several more moments before starting on his eggs, which were scrambled thanks to Art.

After breakfast, which was eaten in silence, Snape resumed his unpacking and organizing, while Art merely watched quietly, pretending to pick at her remaining eggs whenever Snape looked her way. What really rankled with her was the fact that breakfast had actually tasted good. Frowning, Art huffily thought that it must be because he was Potions Master. If he could brew potions he must know how to cook. She didn't notice the way his shoulders stiffened as that thought crossed her mind.

Snape turned and looked at Art disdainfully, noticing that she hadn't even moved from her chair to unpack. Finally, he spoke, "Well, shall we begin?"

"What?"

"We have to go out there and gather the herbs on this list. We might as well start now." He strode for the door, adding as he passed her, "Get up."

Art picked herself up with a groan, realizing how tired she was as she stood. "Surely we can't find any herbs in this weather. They're all buried under snow."

Snape glared at her, "These herbs only grow in the snow, Quinn. Now move it."

Art obeyed, trudging out into the snow, following Snape at a safe distance. They walked for quite a ways, and Art's toes were already numb by the time Snape caught sight of green sprouting at the base of a tree where the snow was the thinnest. Kneeling there, he tossed Art a rough burlap sack, which she figured out that she was supposed to hold while he put herbs in them.

It took a long time to fill the bag, especially considering that they only found one or two sprigs of herbs at a time, and the sun was hovering on the western side of the sky by the time Snape put the final branch into the sack. He took it from Art, noticing that she was shivering uncontrollably by now, the end of her nose bright pink. She noted ruefully that his nose was still completely white. He seemed to be immune to the cold.

Indeed, as they wandered back to the cottage, he asked her, "What's bothering you, Quinn?"

"I'm c-c-cold," she stammered through chattering teeth.

"Is that all?" He scoffed as they reached the cottage. Opening the door, he let her in first, watching with mild amusement as she trailed immediately toward the fireplace, which he lit soon afterward.

Art thawed while Snape sat at his desk and began sorting the herbs, placing them in separate bundles and tying them with bits of string. Finally, as he finished, Snape turned to Art and asked, "Are you hungry?"

She nodded, still too cold to focus on much more than the fire in front of her. He shook his head as he made his way into the 'kitchen' and began to prepare dinner. Art hardly noticed when he dropped a sandwich in her lap, but she did notice the soup he gave her. Fortunately, he didn't drop the soup in her lap, placing it carefully on the floor in front of her. Art wolfed down her food, and by the time she had finished and put her dishes in the sink, she felt a little less numb and began to think about sleep.

Snape had eaten in a prone position on the bed, and now he got up, obviously thinking about the same thing. He levitated his dishes with a flick of his wand and sent them into the kitchen, standing and brushing himself off.

"You can have the bed, Quinn," he offered. Art noticed that the statement itself was very gentlemanly, but the voice accompanying it was reluctant and almost spiteful.

"No thank you," she turned him down politely. "I want to sleep in the byre tonight."

"You mean in there?" He asked, incredulity lacing his tone.

"Yes. It's warm and comfortable." Art forgot to mention that it reminded her of home.

After a few moments, Snape shrugged, "Suit yourself." He returned to occupying the bed.

Art blinked tiredly and made her way toward the stable. Just as she crossed the threshold, something prompted her to turn and murmur, "Good night, Professor," before exiting the room. Snape merely grunted in reply.

Settling down in the straw, Art pulled a pillow and blanket out of her bag and nestled comfortably into the soft bedding. Sighing, she inhaled the sweet smelling hay and slowly drifted off to sleep. Her last thought was the tiny morsel of hope that Snape might resist waking up early tomorrow. Maybe he would let her sleep in…

x…x

"Get up, Quinn."

Art groggily woke just before her blanket suddenly disappeared, accompanied by a cold rush of air. "Eek!" She exclaimed, sitting up in time to see Snape pointing his wand at her blanket, which folded itself and landed in a neat pile beside her haystack.

He looked at her with an arch expression and stated, "If you want to eat, I suggest you hurry up."

She grumbled at the intrusion on her personal space as he left, but she grudgingly rose and rustled in her bag for a clean change of clothes.

Groaning, Art wandered into the other room, combing through her red hair with her fingers because she had forgotten to bring her brush. She pulled a piece of straw from her hair and looked out the window, realizing that it was still dark outside. Art turned and stared at Snape, who had his back to her and was rustling around in the kitchen. So much for sleeping in.

She shuffled exhaustedly into the kitchen, sitting in her chair at the tiny table and asking, "What's for breakfast?"

Snape merely turned around and dropped a box of cereal on the table along with a carton of milk. He clunked a bowl carelessly in front of her, replying in a bored voice, "Here."

Art stared at it for a moment before she realized that he wasn't going to make it for her. After another few seconds, she reached forward and poured the cereal out into her bowl. A cascade of small, colourful loops piled out, filling her bowl faster than she thought, spilling over the edge.

"…Oops," she muttered, looking around nervously, just in case Snape was nearby. He was sitting at his desk, flipping through a book and scribbling a few things in it, completely ignoring her.

Carefully, she picked up each little piece of cereal, looked around for a trash can and, realizing there was none, plinked them back into the box. Art returned to the task of preparing her breakfast, which was fast becoming something of a challenge. She took the carton of milk and tilted it just enough to direct a tiny stream of liquid into her bowl. She was determined not to spill this.

From his desk, Snape suddenly emitted a low, disgruntled sound, obviously finding something that bothered him. Art turned quickly, just to make sure that she wasn't the reason he was making that annoyed noise. After a moment, she turned back around once she had affirmed that she was not doing anything wrong. It then became apparent that something was not right. Her cereal was now covered in milk, but the pieces were floating over the edge of her bowl and spilling onto the table.

Worried as to the source of this strange phenomenon, Art glanced at the milk carton. She realized with a start that she had accidentally tipped it too far, and it was now flooding her cereal, as well as most of the table. Hastily setting it down, she immediately reached for the nearest available cloth to swab up her mess. This happened to be a conveniently placed, large piece of black fabric hanging from the back of a nearby chair. Art quickly laid hold of it and hurriedly wiped the mess up. The table was still a little sticky when she finished, but she didn't think Snape would notice, and she replaced the cloth onto the chair.

Finally Art managed to actually ingest some of her breakfast, and she decided that it was a good idea to find some other means of entertainment before she made more of a mess. Wondering if Snape was just waiting for her to finish so that they could go, she tried to get his attention. "Um…Professor?"

Snape continued to peruse his book. After several moments of silence, Art realized that he was ignoring her. Too scared to bother him again, Art sat down in a chair at the corner of the desk, waiting patiently.

Unfortunately, Art was not good at being patient. As the minutes ticked slowly by with no sign of change from Snape, Art began to fidget. She wondered what he found so interesting in that little book. Carefully peering across the desk at it, she attempted to read the tiny scrawl in it. Realizing that she wouldn't be able to decipher it at such a skewed angle, she leaned a little to the side and twisted her head so that she could see it from a somewhat decent vantage point.

This worked just fine for a few seconds before the chair, creaky and old, slipped from underneath her, suddenly depriving her of her stable perch. Reaching out in a panic for something to hold her up, Art grabbed the nearest protrusion: Snape's elbow. He was caught unawares, however, and they both suddenly found themselves on the floor.

Snape turned his gaze upon Art, his face a mask of blankness. "Did you need something, Quinn?" He asked shortly.

Art shook her head, "N—no, sir."

He glared at her for a moment before standing and turning back to the desk. He picked up the book, and for a brief spell, Art thought he was going to continue his study of it. Fortunately, Snape seemed to have realized the futility of this, and he merely closed it, placing it on top of a neat stack of several other books just like it.

As Art picked herself up, he stalked across the room and retrieved his cloak from atop the chair he had draped it on, throwing it over his shoulders. "Shall we go then?" He inquired icily.

Art was about to reply, but Snape cut her off, brushing past her and toward the front door. Just as he made to open it, a soft patter on the ground caught his attention. Turning slowly, Snape looked down, wondering what the source of the strange noise was. One solitary colourful loop rolled gently to a stop barely in front of his foot.

"What is this?" He asked dubiously, not daring to pick it up and find out.

Art suddenly and horribly found out the nature of the 'cloth' she had used to mop up her mess. She immediately avoided Snape's searching gaze. "Er…some sort of artificially coloured, processed breakfast cereal?"

Snape glowered at her, his foot crunching on the lone piece of cereal before whirling around and making for the door. Art stifled a giggle when she saw the back of his cloak. It was encrusted with what seemed like hundreds of the tiny little loops.

Following him outside, Art tried to ignore the colourful addition to the professor's wardrobe, but it was an impossible task for someone so used to cleaning. Finally, she timidly walked close enough to reach the back of his cloak, attempting to pluck one away from the fabric. It didn't come loose. She tried harder, but that only resulted in the attraction of Snape's attention.

He turned on her, growling, "What?"

Art stuffed her hands hastily in her pockets, trying to look innocent. "Nothing, Professor. I was just…I was…er…" She didn't have a good excuse.

When Snape realized that he was going to get nothing but a stuttering attempt at an explanation, he merely huffed and resumed walking. Why was Quinn being so distracting this morning?

Art decided not to try the direct approach, instead resolving to zap the loops off with her wand. It worked, but also managed to singe holes in the material. By the time they returned to the cottage when Snape could no longer work due to the lack of light, every single piece of cereal was gone and his cloak was entirely riddled with holes, like a giant piece of linty black Swiss cheese.

He realized this upon removal of the offending item of clothing, but as fed up as he was with the new development, he decided against repairing it. No, he would save it and make sure to have it with him when Dumbledore casually brought up the subject of his holiday. Snape wanted viable proof of his misery.

Art, meanwhile, felt horrible. She hadn't noticed anything at first, but as the day had progressed, she began to feel a strange sensation take over her body. She soon recognized this uncomfortable feeling, which gave her the impression that everything around her was spinning. It was dizziness. When she trudged back into the warmth of the cottage, she felt truly nauseous, and her senses spun uncontrollably. It didn't help that her nose wouldn't stop running. Plopping herself down in front of the fireplace, Art didn't even manage to remove her boots, which were soaked and uncomfortable. She could barely move enough to take off her cloak and lay it out before her, where it could dry in front of the fire.

Snape didn't seem to notice her discomfort, which was fine with Art. She wasn't sure she wanted to broadcast her condition to the cantankerous man, who was at that moment sorting herbs with short, irritable flicks of his hand. It was probably not a good idea to interrupt him with her problems. Finally, Art realized the uselessness of sitting in front of the fire and pretending to be alright, so she managed to stumble toward her stable, where she curled up miserably in the straw. She barely had enough energy to pull her blanket over herself. It didn't help ward off the chills that overtook her.

She cursed Snape for keeping her outside for so long in such horribly cold weather. Art was not good at fighting off disease. And so, with a final pitiful moan of woe and suffering, Art drifted off into a light, restless sleep, hoping that she would be better by morning. She couldn't bear the thought of telling Snape that he would have to do all the work himself. He would be so angry with her…


	6. Sick

_Ah, we were all waiting to see the outcome of Art's sickness. Here it is. _

Art knew that if she slept until morning, she could probably get by with a tiny taste of the illness that threatened to completely overthrow her immune system. Unfortunately, she was unable to sleep that long. She woke up after what seemed countless hours of tossing and turning restlessly, feeling worse than ever.

For one thing, her queasiness had reached a new level of misery, going beyond a mere uncomfortable feeling and becoming an urgent need to find a bathroom. Art delayed this expedition as long as she possibly could. The only 'bathroom' within at least a mile was a tiny shed behind the cottage, and there were at least ten meters of wet, knee-deep snow between the door and the outhouse. She knew that if it could be so cold in her nice warm byre, it would be an icy desert outside. It didn't help that her fever was only getting worse, making her ache all over, despite the fact that she was huddled, shivering underneath a pile of hay, clutching her blanket tightly around her.

Finally, something inside Art clicked, and she knew she had to leave now if she had any hope of making it to a bathroom. She refused to think of what would occur should she miss and throw up in her hay…or worse, somewhere inside the cottage. Stumbling for the door, Art tried to noiselessly cross the room, determined not to wake Snape. She didn't need him hovering angrily over her at this point.

Art made it to the front door and had just stepped outside when she felt a sudden wrench in her stomach. She knew then that running to the bathroom would be a fruitless effort. Falling to her knees, Art expelled whatever contents still remained in her stomach from breakfast before letting out a small, pathetic sob and rolling over onto her side, into a snow drift. Why did being sick have to be so miserable?

Feeling slightly better, but sore and exhausted just the same, Art laid there for several minutes until the snow had completely soaked through her clothing. She realized with a start that she was shivering violently. Figuring that she had enough energy to crawl back inside, she opened the door and made her way slowly toward her stable. Unfortunately, Art realized halfway across the room that it was too far. She would never make it. Instead, Art decided that curling up in front of the fire would be a better idea. Grabbing her cloak, which was still draped in front of the fireplace, Art pulled the warm item of clothing around her shoulders, placing her aching head carefully on the floor and closing her eyes. The warmth closed in around her, and soon Art drifted off.

x…x

Art woke up with a strange sensation in the pit of her stomach. Worried that she was getting sick again, Art hurriedly opened her eyes and tried to stand. This was difficult to do, considering that for some strange reason she was already standing and her feet hovered a few inches above the ground.

She gasped loudly, suddenly panicking at the thought that she had absolutely no idea how she was going to get down. She didn't even know how she had gotten up in the first place. A voice interrupted her alarm, causing her to whirl around and stare accusingly, yet timidly, at the source.

"Ah, you're finally awake. At least you aren't shouting anymore," Snape drawled bad-temperedly. He looked tired and thoroughly nettled as he pointed his wand at her.

Art frowned, "Shouting? Why would I be shouting?"

"I don't know," he replied sourly, "I couldn't ask you because you were sleeping." He paused, flicking his wand and letting her drop to the ground.

She crumpled into a pile, suddenly realizing just how sick she felt.

Glaring, he added, "It took you long enough to wake up."

Art merely curled up into a tiny ball, not in the mood to argue. In fact, she wasn't in the mood to speak at all.

Surprised to see that she wasn't addressing him, not even to apologize, Snape took a closer look at Art. It appeared upon more detailed inspection that she was genuinely not feeling well. How odd. Taking a moment to think about the situation, Snape realized that she wouldn't be much help to him in this state. Usually at this point, people said something comforting to make the person feel better. Snape merely stated, "You look terrible, Quinn."

Art groaned in reply. It seemed she felt the same way too.

Sighing, Snape began his preparations for the day, realizing that it was too late to go back to sleep. He would need the early start anyway, considering that he would be working alone.

Donning his cloak—the holey one—Snape turned back to Art one last time. "Quinn!" He demanded, almost as an afterthought, "Tell me, what exactly are your symptoms?"

Confused, tired, and slightly queasy again, Art managed to mumble, "I dunno."

Snape glowered at her, "Stupidity isn't a symptom, Quinn. Answer me."

Trying to think, Art whispered, "Nausea…pain…" It took so much effort to utter each painful word that Art started to cry. She didn't sob—she didn't have the energy to sob—but a few tears trickled down her face because of her frustration. "…And a fever…" She added softly.

Snape didn't look at her, too busy searching for an empty sack to gather the herbs in. After a moment of silence, he addressed her in a perfunctory tone, "You must have contracted some sort of gnomonia."

"_Gnom_onia?" Art asked in a pathetically quiet voice.

Turning to her, Snape studied her for a moment, not quite sure how to deal with her. "Yes," he replied, "you probably came in contact with infected gnome droppings. They are, after all, quite common here."

The explanation didn't seem to make Art feel better. Snape wondered why.

Finally, Snape seemed ready to leave, and he made his way quickly for the exit. "Quinn," he turned to look at her once more as he opened the door, "you should be fine in a few days. Stop whining and rest. You'll feel better."

Art gave a small groan in response.

Stepping outside, he heard a squelch, and felt his shoe sink into something rather than crunch over crisp snow. Snape glanced down, wincing when he saw what exactly he had stepped in. He growled, wiping the sole of his shoe off in a nearby pile of clean snow, scraping a small mound of the white powder over the mess so he wouldn't accidentally step in it again. That was disgusting. Why had Quinn chosen to vomit in that particular place? Sighing, Snape stalked bad-temperedly past it, completely absorbed in his anguish.

He returned later that night, tired and sore, only to find that in his absence, Art had decided to occupy the bed. He shuddered when he noticed that she had managed to drag her bedding in from the byre, trailing straw with her. Obviously she had been too weak to brush it off. It was at that moment that he realized he was not going to have _any_ comfort that night: Art was lying on his blanket.

Snape slept on a thin, battered rug on the floor, muttering dark things about Art as he fell asleep, and continuing his black narration as soon as he rose, even sorer, in the morning. Art continued to sleep.

Another long day of herb hunting went by and Snape found himself seriously considering sleeping in the stable that night. Of course, this idea was hastily quelled by his more sensible side, and he settled for the hope that Art might be awake by now. Snape immediately looked toward that corner of the room when he entered, and with a start realized that Art had not moved at all, still completely unconscious. Snarling, he vowed that if Art wasn't awake by morning, he would personally relocate her and claim his place back. He had grown quite attached to it, after all.

A second night of sleeping on the floor with nothing but his decrepit cloak as a ward against the creeping cold did not do wonders for Snape's personality. His mood was severely darkened by the time morning came.

To say he had slept that night would be a gross mistake. The floor was very hard and unwelcoming, and he was too sore to even attempt sleeping. It did not help that he had to keep turning every few minutes to make sure that one side did not get too hot from the warmth of the fireplace while the other side froze. No, Snape did not sleep at all. He merely waited until a time when it would be decent to rise and start the day.

It was a very welcome sound then, when during breakfast, he heard a rustle from the bed. Whirling and almost tipping over his sausage and mash, Snape saw with a grateful start that Art was indeed waking up.

Confused, and a little sore, Art sat up, rubbing her tired eyes. "Professor?" She managed to croak upon catching sight of Snape.

"Quinn," he greeted her in a cold voice, standing and coming near her. "Are you feeling better?" He asked this not because he cared, but because he wanted to know if she would finally move.

Art exhaustedly considered the question, nodding at length and replying groggily, "I think so."

"You're still weak," he noted as she attempted to stand, only succeeding in falling back down onto the bed.

Art seemed to agree.

After a moment, Snape voiced the inevitable, "Well, you still aren't fit to come with me today. Stay here," he ordered, adding with venom, "and don't touch anything. Understood?"

Art nodded for a second time.

"Good," he drawled before finishing his preparations and leaving. Art was all alone again.

She tried to lie back down, but she had already been sleeping for an extremely long time, and though she was still exhausted, Art wasn't feeling nearly as ill. In fact, she felt a little guilty at making Snape work out there all by himself, although she was pretty sure that he probably preferred it that way.

Glancing around, Art noticed a pile of herbs that lay scattered haphazardly on the desk. They didn't seem to be sorted. Professor Snape must have been too tired to take on that task last night. Thinking about it for a moment, Art decided that there was no harm in sorting them for the professor. He had warned her not to touch anything, but she thought it would be alright in this case. After all, how could he get mad at her for helping? Surely it was impossible for even her to make a hash of something as simple as that.

Sitting carefully at the desk, Art began to muddle through the sorting process, placing each different herb in its own pile and putting others like them in their respective places. Even in her somewhat detached state, it only took Art a few hours to finish, and by the end she had about twelve decently sized piles in front of her. Just as she was about to get up and find something else to do, however, Art recalled seeing Snape label them the last time he had sorted the herbs. Maybe she should try the same thing.

Looking at the herbs on the desk, Art wondered if she even knew the names of all the plants. Glancing at them, she realized that she could only identify about half of them, and even then she wasn't sure she knew exactly how to spell their somewhat complicated names. She rifled through the other items on the desk, wondering if there was possibly something she could use to help identify the others.

Thinking, Art remembered that Snape had always taken care to scribble something in that little black book of his every time he had finished with his sorting. Perhaps she could find something in there to assist her.

She located the book after thoroughly searching through Snape's things, only finding after digging through a load of books and papers that had been dropped carelessly into a drawer. Drawing the book from the bottom of said drawer, Art flipped it open to a random page, not quite sure where he had been writing last. It was then, with a sense of dreaded curiosity, that Art realized the book was not some sort of log, filled with identifications of plants and stuff. It seemed to be something a bit more personal, and she had just opened it to a page containing a photo.

Examining it with the morbid knowledge that she would most likely be found smeared across the floor if Snape caught her looking at it, Art stared at the young woman waving back from the picture. Surprised, Art flipped to the next page and encountered similar pictures of the same red-haired woman. She frowned; was it possible that Snape experienced other feelings besides loathing and annoyance? If not, then why did he keep so many pictures of this mysterious, beautiful woman?

Sensing that she might find a clue by searching farther, Art turned the pages until she had passed all the photos. She was about to put the book down in disappointment, when she suddenly realized that there had been something different about that last picture. Rifling back to it, Art stared at it for a moment. Nothing moved in this picture. There was nobody in it who could have moved.

It was just a picture of a rock. It was a nicely shaped rock, however, and Art thought she could discern writing on it. Peering closer, Art read the words:

HERE LIES:

LILY EVANS POTTER

Art only had to read that far to realize with sudden dread that she had pried exceedingly too far into Snape's life. It was just as well, considering that at that moment, she heard crunching footsteps just outside. Thoroughly cursing both her bad luck and her curiosity, Art hastily tossed the book into the drawer, not noticing that it remained open to that exact page as she slammed the drawer shut.

She leapt from the chair, racing across the room and toward the door to the byre. Forgetting that her bedding remained on the bed, Art sped past it, burying herself deep in a pile of loose straw. It was only then that she realized the mess she had left behind, but it was too late to do anything about it, because she could clearly hear Snape moving about in the next room. His heavy footsteps alerted her to the fact that he wasn't in a very accommodating mood at the moment.

Indeed, Snape was not in any sort of accommodating mood. He didn't feel like sorting herbs at the moment, too sick of work, and he didn't feel like eating. In fact, at that moment, he really didn't feel much like breathing either, but he had to, if only to spare himself a fainting spell.

Finally he stopped pacing and dropped his load of herbs onto the desk. About to turn away, he suddenly noticed something different. Where one giant mass of herbs had been that morning now lay twelve neatly organized bundles. Strange. He didn't remember sorting those.

Then he suddenly recalled Quinn.

Sitting down in his chair, Snape frowned at the herbs, trying to decide whether he should be angry at her for disobeying him and touching things, or appreciative of the help. He was about to come to the happy conclusion that neutrality was a safe medium, when he suddenly caught sight of the disorderly pile of things just to the side of his left foot. Weren't those papers supposed to be in the drawer? For once, Snape was actually confused. And then it occurred to him…again.

Quinn.

Growling, he bent over and picked up the very heavy stack, opening the drawer so that he could replace it. However, his eye suddenly caught sight of the small object at the bottom. Snape dropped the pile immediately, reaching down into the drawer and pulling out the little black book. It remained open.

He stared at the open page for a moment, letting the image register in his mind. It did not take long, considering that he knew that page very well. What he did not fully grasp immediately was the fact that a pair of eyes excluding his own had seen this page.

Quinn. How dare she? Snape had the sudden impulse to commit violent homicide. It took him several moments to repress the desire to strangle Quinn and tear out her vocal chords in a vicious manner and stuff them back down her throat.

Glancing at the page again, Snape threw down the book, glaring into space. Oh, he was mad. He was furious. He just wasn't sure how to express his wrath. Quinn needed to suffer for her blatant violation of his privacy. This brought the matter of her whereabouts back to his attention. Where was the—_censored_—girl anyway?

Meanwhile, Art was beginning to get tired of hiding. She had recently come to the conclusion that Snape was sure to find out about her gigantic error, and she was doomed.

Peering out from under her haystack, Art crawled hesitantly toward the door, picking strands of hay from her clothing before opening it and entering the room. Strangely enough, everything was still in tact. Looking nervously around, Art found Snape sorting herbs at his desk, completely absorbed in the task. Strange, Art thought, wondering if for some bizarre reason the professor hadn't noticed her intrusion. He hadn't even looked up when she entered, nor did he do anything to acknowledge her presence as she shuffled by, making her way carefully toward the kitchen. That wasn't out of the ordinary, however, and Art began to feel relieved.

As she passed him, though, Art glanced at the desk and suddenly stopped, staring at the black book, which lay open to the exact page she had last seen. Snape didn't even pause in his sorting or glance in Art's direction, but Art knew that he now knew about her trespass into his past.

Backing away, she wondered what he would do to her. He was obviously still in shock at the moment, but when that wore off, Art sensed that something bad would happen to her. The only question was when exactly he would chose to do the deed.

Art still felt very weak, and her current stressful situation was not assisting. Seeing that at the moment Snape seemed too busy to deal with her, she decided that it would be alright if she ate. Rummaging through the icebox, Art dug out a pear, looked at it for a moment, and then took a bite from it and sat down. It was a meagre last meal, but Art wasn't sure she could stomach anything else at the moment. She was halfway done by the time Snape finished, and she flinched as he approached, but he merely passed in front of her, rifling through their store of food and preparing his own meal.

He sat across the table from her, completely ignoring her as he ate, flipping absently through that black book before setting it down in front of him, still open to that solitary page that haunted Art. She looked away, unable to finish her pear. She felt sick again.

Snape too seemed to have lost most of his appetite, and he discarded more than half his meal before making his way across the room, removing his shoes and his cloak before settling comfortably on the bed. Art still sat at the table, staring with mild horror at the picture before her. She suddenly realized what he was doing. He hadn't even begun his revenge. He was going to toy with her a bit before actually revealing Art's punishment.

Scared to the point of tears, Art decided that she couldn't keep waiting and wondering what he would do. The agony of this strange limbo seemed punishment enough. She stood and slowly made her way toward the professor, who lay staring at the ceiling, his hands clasped behind his head. Art didn't miss the fact that he was lying on her bedding, which she had neglected to move. She had a feeling that he wasn't going to budge so that she could retrieve it, either.

"S-sir?" Art squeaked in a petrified voice, shaking all over.

Snape didn't even twitch.

"Sir, a-about your book…I…" She faltered as he finally turned his head toward her, casting her a frigid glare. Art was proved wrong at that moment. She had thought that Snape hated her before. However, his previous loathing glances had held nothing of the malice that she now saw emanating from those two coal black eyes. Art froze under that penetrating gaze.

"…"

"What?" He uttered in a low, menacing voice, emphasizing that single syllable with all the ill will he could muster.

"…I—I didn't think…I didn't mean to look. I—I…" Seeing that excuses were out of the question, Art skipped immediately to the apology. "I'm sorry, sir…"

"Sorry?" Snape echoed, sitting up slowly with careful, deliberate exactness. A low sound rumbled from deep within his chest, rising to his throat, where it remained as he glared at her. "Sorry?" He had to repeat it, as though he couldn't believe he had heard it.

Art nodded, backing away as he stood, advancing on her. But it was too late. Striding forward, Snape closed the distance between them until he could push his face to within an inch of hers.

"Sorry won't do you a damn bit of good, Quinn!" He snarled, taking her by the shoulders and pulling her closer so that he could tower over her even more.

Art winced, feeling his fingers close painfully around her arms, like vices. "I-it was an accident—"

"I don't care!" He exploded, flinging her from him.

Art landed with a bump on her backside, skidding to a halt against the far wall, near the door. She didn't bother to wait for another torrent of fury. Reaching for the doorknob Art pulled herself up and fled.

Snape merely stood and stared at the open door, breathing heavily. His brows knitted together in a scowl. Good, she was finally gone. He turned away and sat down on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair. He was shaking. Feeling mildly ill, Snape wondered if the girl would even try to return. He had certainly frightened the wits out of her. She had left in such haste that she had left behind her cloak; he could see it now, draped beside the fireplace, her shoes sitting beneath it.

He suddenly wondered what she was wearing if her shoes were still inside. Hadn't she been completely barefoot? Snape sighed heavily, burying his face in his hands. Merlin, she had just barely come out of a bad bout of gnomonia as well. What had he done?

After a few more minutes of contemplation, Snape stood up, pulling his shoes back on and retrieving his holey cloak, fastening it around his neck. He still loathed Quinn, but no amount of annoyance could justify the fact that she was wandering through a dangerous forest alone in the quickly fading light. Snape shuddered at the thought of how cold it would soon become without the sun's warmth to ward off the chill.

He lit his wand and held it out, scanning the snow for any sign of Art's passage. It was easy to find her tracks, which were hurriedly made and therefore rather obvious. Hastily following them, Snape paused only for a moment when he noticed something strange about her footprints. Leaning in nearer, he realized that there was a faint reddish tinge left deep in the snow. Blood. He cursed; she must have stepped on something, a sharp rock or a broken twig perhaps, cutting herself.

Picking his way through the forest, his eyes locked on Art's trail, Snape began to truly worry as he noticed lager imprints occurring at more frequent intervals. These indicated that Art was weakening and beginning to stumble. The good thing was that she couldn't have made it much farther. He increased his stride, wanting to find Art before it became truly dark outside.

The previously winding trail began to smooth out suddenly, and Snape noticed that it took a sharp turn toward the left. Following it, he soon caught sight of Art, huddled miserably against the trunk of a large evergreen, her face buried in her knees, which she had drawn up to her chest. Approaching swiftly, he knelt beside her, taking her head in both hands and forcing it up so he could look at her face and ascertain that she was still alive.

Art's watery grey eyes widened with terror, but she was too exhausted and cold to even push him away.

"That was a really stupid thing to do, Quinn," he growled, sliding his arms underneath her and picking her up. He wasn't going to make her walk all the way back to the cottage. She could infect the wound in her foot, and he didn't need another illness to deal with.

"I'm sorry!" Art sobbed pathetically, throwing her arms around his neck as he stumbled forward. She didn't want to fall, and anyway, his shoulder provided the perfect dry place to bury her face and weep.

Snape grimaced, but did not reply, too busy concentrating on following Art's trail back to the cottage. The journey took nearly twice as long returning, and they were both extremely grateful to stumble across the threshold and into the warmth of the interior. Finished with his act of heroism, Snape dropped Art unceremoniously onto the floor and staggered toward the bed, where he flopped down.

Finally, once Art had settled herself under her blanket in front of the fire and Snape had stretched out on the bed, they both began to worry not about whether they were going to survive, but who was going to speak first. After a few moments, Snape got up, trailing to the kitchen and retrieving a large kettle from one of the cupboards. He filled it in the sink, from which the water had to be pumped manually, and carried it to the fireplace, where he hung it to boil.

He turned to Art, pointing to a nearby chair. "Sit."

Art didn't know why he seemed so intent on relocating her, but she readily obeyed, unwilling to irritate the man further.

Crouching in front of her, Snape stared up at her worried face for a moment before instructing, "Hold out your feet." His face was a blank mask as he hastily inspected each foot. It wasn't difficult to find the wound, an ugly but not particularly deep gash in the sole of her right foot, and Snape determined that it was not life-threatening or even somewhat interesting.

Impatiently checking the temperature of the water, Snape grew tired of waiting, and he pointed his wand at the kettle, sending a streak of light at the object. The water immediately began to hiss and boil, and he removed it from the fire, taking it back to the kitchen, where he rifled around until he found a large bowl into which he poured most of the hot water. Snape levitated it back toward Art and placed it in front of her with a small splash.

"Put your feet in," he stated shortly.

Art gave him an incredulous look. "But it's hot!"

"That would be the point," he replied with an acidic tone.

Bravely attempting to obey, Art winced as her feet touched the scalding liquid. "It's hot…" she whimpered.

"For Merlin's sake!" Snape stalked toward the door and went outside for a brief moment before returning with a large ball of snow in his hands. He dropped it in the water with no show of remorse when some of the water splashed Art. "There."

Art could see his patience wearing thin, so she hurriedly rolled up her pant legs and shoved her feet into the water. It was still far too warm for her liking, but she bore the pain with a minimum of whimpering. Closing her eyes helped, and she nearly drifted off, her exhaustion returning now that she felt warm and somewhat safe again.

She jumped, however, when an icy hand plunged into the hot water and took hold of her injured foot, lifting it for a moment while Snape examined the wound. His first analysis had been correct, although there was some debris that managed to enter the wound that could present a problem. Taking Art's foot in both hands, he worked the dirt from it, noticing with a bit of a smile that each time one of his thumbs touched the cut, Art would wriggle uncomfortably in the chair. At least she had to feel some discomfort as well.

"Stop squirming," he muttered in a dark voice.

"Sorry, Professor…" Art winced, "but—ooo…that…aah—kind of—ow…hurts."

"So would gangrene. Hold still."

Art braced herself against the chair and endured the remainder of her somewhat painful massage, sighing with relief when Snape finally seemed satisfied and let her foot drop back into the water. It stung a little, but it was nothing compared to what she had just suffered.

Snape disappeared for a few moments, hovering somewhere near the kitchen, behind Art and out of view. When he returned, he instructed Art to pick up her feet again and slid the bowl from under her. He threw a towel at her, making sure she dried her feet properly before he knelt again and began to bind her foot with a strip of cloth. Tying it with a final sharp tug that caused Art to emit a strangled cry, he stood and stalked away, returning to the bed and sitting down on it, removing his shoes for a second time.

Art realized that this meant he was done helping her, and she hastily made an exit, dragging her bedding with her into the stable, where she curled up on her pile of loose hay and closed her eyes. She didn't notice when exactly she drifted off, but for the first time in two nights, Art slept comfortably and peacefully amid her sweet-smelling hay and her warm blanket.

_Hahaha, I bet you thought that would turn out differently. Well, it didn't. So review so you can tell me what you thought! --OneCrazyGirl_


	7. Returned

_Alright, here's the next chapter. This story is becoming more and more difficult to write, as the characters are evolving in unexpected ways. Hopefully it's still somewhat decent though, so read it and decide for yourselves!_

A truce was silently instated over the next few days, but only because both parties were too exhausted to deal with any more hectic experiences. Art didn't touch anything of Snape's, and Snape merely ignored her as usual. In fact, after about a week Snape began to realize that Art was not going to bring up the topic of his book and bother him about who the woman in it was. She seemed to understand how he felt, and that surprised him.

The following days were peaceful and relatively uneventful, despite Art's talent for screwing things up. Neither of them noticed as Christmas Eve came and went, and it didn't even dawn on Art that it was Christmas when she woke the next day until two owls flew up to the window, perching on the narrow sill with some difficulty.

Curious, Art watched as Snape rose from his desk, opened the window, and allowed the owls to deposit their packages. He cursorily checked the addresses before dropping one of them onto his desk, approaching Art and tossing the other one to her.

"Happy Christmas," he growled before returning to his desk.

"Really?" Art looked up from her package, amazed to be hearing those two words from his mouth.

"No," Snape replied grimly, scratching hastily with his quill on a piece of parchment. He didn't even glance at his package.

Art stared at the parcel in her lap for a moment, muttering under her breath, "Well happy Christmas to you anyway, you bugger." She didn't notice that for a brief moment Snape looked up and glared her way before shaking his head slowly and resuming his writing.

Deciding that now was as good a time as any to open up the package, Art pried the box open, looking inside to see a small pile of gifts within. There was a letter on top, written in Dumbledore's spidery handwriting.

_Dear Artemis,_

_I hope you have enjoyed your little expedition so far and that Severus hasn't troubled you too much. Enclosed are a few gifts from those of us who miss you and want to wish you a very merry Christmas._

_-Albus Dumbledore_

Art sighed, glancing around. This was her first Christmas away from her family, and she was spending it alone in this forsaken part of the world with only Snape for company. She grimaced at the thought. He didn't make particularly good company, but at least he had been keeping to himself lately.

Turning back to her package, Art reached inside and pulled out several small gifts, including a new toothbrush from her parents, an instruction book of simple spells from Dumbledore, and another of Hagrid's brick-cakes. She smiled, setting these out on the table in front of her. Unbeknownst to her, Snape happened to glance her way just as she pulled out the last gift, a bottle of flea shampoo.

Art heard a snort from the other side of the room. She glared in Snape's direction, but he remained in the same position he had been sitting in, his face blank. He couldn't have been the one to laugh at her, could he?

Pulling a tiny note off of the bottle, Art unfolded the paper and deciphered the scrawled handwriting.

_Eldrige,_

_Hurry back. Mrs. Norris needs a bath._

Art laughed, relieved that Filch did not mean for her to use the shampoo. Turning toward Snape, she realized that he still hadn't opened his present. She brought this to his attention.

"Um, professor, you didn't open your present."

"I know." He didn't even look up from his writing.

"Are you going to?"

"No."

"You aren't even curious?" Art was seriously confused at his lack of enthusiasm. Everybody liked presents.

"No."

Art furrowed her brow. She didn't care if he was curious; by now, the suspense was too great for her to bear. What was in that box? "Can…can I open it?" She asked haltingly.

Snape glanced up for a brief moment before uttering a single word. "No."

Art thought for a moment, before softly asking, "But what if the headmaster sent a letter to you? He sent me one. Maybe he wants us to come back early."

She could tell that her question had struck home when Snape's quill suddenly stopped, and he shifted his gaze slowly toward the package. He carefully reached out and picked up the box, opening it at a leisurely pace. His eyes immediately lit on a letter, and he opened it, scanning it hurriedly, almost desperately.

After a long silence, he looked up, murder in his eyes.

"What's wrong, sir?" Art asked nervously.

Snape glared at her. "The headmaster has sent another list of herbs we are to collect. We will not be returning to Hogwarts for another two weeks."

Art inhaled sharply. That was not very good news at all. She didn't mind herb-picking, or Romania, but being trapped with Snape for that long could kill a person.

Finally, Snape spoke again, his voice soft and contemplative. "Well, I suppose we had better go into the village. We need supplies for the next two weeks." He ground out this last sentence through his teeth.

Perhaps this prospect rankled Snape, considering that it meant losing valuable time to gather herbs, but to Art it seemed like heaven. She was curious to see what sorts of things she might find in this strange Romanian town. Stuffing her pockets full with all the spending money she had saved for herself over the few months she had worked, Art followed Snape happily toward the village.

As they entered the square, Snape turned toward what looked like the grocer's little shop. Art did not follow, wanting to look around the other stores. He turned back to look at her, as if to ask her if she was coming.

"Can I just meet you back here in a few minutes?" Art asked hesitantly.

Snape thought about it, retorting sceptically, "Can you manage to find your way back?"

Art nodded, missing the sarcasm, "Yes."

"You have ten minutes." With this, Snape whirled and stalked away.

Grinning, Art raced toward what looked like an antique shop, stepping inside the tiny building. It was very warm and smelled of spices. An older woman with a pile of mousy hair on her head smiled at Art from behind a counter, watching her contentedly as Art looked around happily.

Art gazed at various old artefacts: from old fountain pens, to sheaves of yellowed paper bound together with fading ribbons, and to old fabrics that hung in neat folds across the back wall. One thing in particular caught her attention, and upon closer attention, Art saw why. Hanging between a light blue flowered dress and a green velvet cape was a heavy black cloak, cut very much like the one Snape had worn and she had destroyed. Inspecting it, Art felt the dense fabric, admiring the cut and the stitching. It was a bit old, she had to admit, but it seemed to have held up rather well, and it had far fewer holes in it than Snape's current cloak.

Carrying it up to the counter, Art shyly asked the woman, "How much?"

Smiling at Art, the woman stated something in an unintelligible language, shaking her head.

Art suddenly realized she had a problem. She couldn't speak or even understand Romanian. How was she going to put it across that she wanted to know how much to pay? Rummaging into her pocket, Art pulled out a small handful of coins, only to discover that she only had wizard money. Looking up in terror, Art noticed a gleam that had suddenly illuminated the woman's eyes. She pointed to one gold galleon in Art's hand, and Art hesitantly handed it to her. The woman inspected it thoroughly, even biting it at one point. Satisfied, the woman nodded her head and put the galleon in an ancient cash register.

Taking this as a good sign, Art smiled and was about to leave when the woman put a hand out to stop her. Turning, Art watched as the woman held up a sheet of brown packaging paper and a length of rough brown twine, pointing questioningly at the cloak. Art realized what she was trying to ask and nodded, grateful to the old woman for being so helpful. Wrapping the cloak hastily into a neat bundle inside the wrapping paper and tying the whole thing carefully with the string, the woman handed it carefully to Art, smiling and waving as Art exited the shop.

Wandering back to the square where she had arranged to meet Snape, Art saw him waiting for her, a few brown packages tucked under his own arms as well. As she approached, he frowned, glanced at her package, and muttered, "You're late."

Art smiled apologetically, whispering nervously, "Sorry."

Snape growled at her, pivoting and stalking back toward their hut in the woods. Art followed quietly. Once they returned and entered the cottage, Snape trailed into the kitchen and began putting away the food, and Art took the opportunity to carefully slip her parcel onto Snape's desk. She hoped he would appreciate her attempt at a sort of apology for ruining his cloak.

It took him a while to put everything away, and Art was decidedly too nervous to watch him open the package anyway. She didn't really want to see his reaction, considering that it could be dangerous to be in the same room with him. He was very unpredictable.

Slipping into the byre, Art sat down and began rummaging through her bag, packing away all her Christmas gifts and trying to find a quill and paper. She wanted to write a letter to her parents. It was a very long letter, and by the time she finished and sealed it, Art figured it would be safe to go back into the other room. Entering cautiously, Art cast a nervous glance at the desk and saw with disappointment that Snape was scribbling on the parchment again, the package completely undisturbed. Did he even know it was for him? Art decided it would be unwise to broach the subject, so she merely went into the kitchen and fixed herself a bowl of cereal.

As she finished, it became apparent that Snape had no intention of going back outside for the rest of the day, so Art trudged back to the stable, curling up on her hay and taking a nap. She only woke long enough to eat dinner and check on the status of her peace-offering. Snape still hadn't even touched it. Scowling, Art ate silently before returning to her byre and sitting on her pile of hay. She wasn't tired enough to sleep yet, so she stared up at the ceiling, thinking to herself. Eventually she drifted off, listening through the wall to see if Snape had moved yet from his desk. He hadn't. Disappointed, but not exactly surprised, Art closed her eyes and slept.

Late that night, after he had finally finished his list of important herbs and their properties, Snape folded it up into a neat square, shoving it carefully under the door to the stable. He had realized that Art had only wanted to help that day she had looked in his black book, and that she needed her own list to look off of. Perhaps it might even help her learn something.

Returning to the desk, Snape stared at the package. It had mysteriously appeared there upon their return to the cottage, and he seemed somewhat suspicious of it, wondering why Art would be so insane as to actually get him something. But why else would she put it on his desk? Sitting down, he finally reached for it, carefully unravelling the string and letting it fall open. A grim smile passed across his face for a brief moment and he pulled the cloak from its packaging.

He stared at it for a moment, comparing it to his old cloak. How had Art, with her extremely bad luck and incompetence, been able to find something like this in such a small, secluded place? Sighing, he tried it on and had to admit that it fit decently and that it succeeded in keeping the cold out. Well, perhaps Quinn wasn't so bad. As he thought this, however, Snape shuddered. Maybe she had good intentions, but things always went horribly wrong when she was around. The sooner he could leave this desolate place and find other company than Art the better.

x…x

The herb-gathering progressed over the next few days without any interesting events. Art noticed that Snape was wearing the new cloak, but the looks he shot her whenever he caught her glancing at it dared her to bring up that fact. She decided not to. Art wanted to have a future.

Time passed rather quickly, and soon there were only a few days left of their encampment up in the Romanian highlands. It came as a surprise then, when another owl appeared with a package and a letter, waiting at the window for somebody to retrieve them. Snape didn't seem to notice it, too busy writing in his little black book. Art, who was only sorting herbs with the assistance of her new list, was the one who got up and let the owl in, taking the package from it and feeding it a leftover scrap of bacon from breakfast.

Reading the tag, Art handed both the parcel and the letter to Snape. She watched as he took it and set it aside with hardly a glance. Finally, too curious to merely walk away, Art asked timidly, "Professor, why did Dumbledore send you a package?" She had recognized the handwriting on the address.

Snape paused, but did not look up. "You don't need to know."

Art was about to turn away, however, something stopped her and urged her to press further. "Sir, aren't you curious? Just a little bit?"

Snape did look up this time, casting her a glare that clearly showed that he remembered what had happened the last time she convinced him to open something. "No."

Art gave up, returning to her place on the floor and sorting herbs. She kept shooting questioning glances at Snape, however, which he noticed with increasing annoyance.

Finally, he threw down his quill, stating, "If you must know, Quinn, it is my birthday today. Now stop disturbing me!" He resumed writing bad-temperedly.

"Really?" Art asked, genuinely curious now. "How old are you?"

Snape stopped writing, and Art suddenly realized her mistake.

"You don't have to answer that," she quickly added.

Snape didn't answer. He didn't even speak. He just returned to his work. The package remained unopened for the rest of the day, although he did finally open the letter, scanning it casually.

Art noticed that he seemed in a better mood after reading the letter, and during dinner, she asked softly, "What did Dumbledore want to tell you?"

Snape's eyes flickered briefly in her direction before he returned his attention to his food, merely replying, "He wants us to return within the next two days."

"Already? When does school begin again?"

"In a week," Snape grumbled, realizing that his holiday had been cut extremely short. He wasn't going to count this expedition as a holiday.

"Oh," Art replied disappointedly. She too wished she had been able to enjoy her holiday a bit more.

Of course, the next two days rushed by hectically as both Snape and Art tried to organize everything before they left as well as gather the last of the herbs they needed. Finally, as they sky grew dark, Snape finished packing the herbs, and Art gathered her things. The professor had already returned the key to the old woman, and they now stood outside the cottage, their things sitting in the snow at their feet.

Art looked back at the tiny stone structure, feeling slightly sad. She hadn't had any wonderful experiences in the small cottage, but she had stayed there for nearly a month, and she had certainly found out a lot about Snape. Sighing, she turned and picked up her bag and one of the three packages filled with herbs.

Snape jerked his head impatiently, indicating that he was anxious to leave. Art clung to his waist, much like before, and they disapparated back toward Hogwarts. Blinking as her feet finally touched firm ground, Art stumbled unsteadily on her feet for a few moments while Snape merely began striding rapidly up the slope toward the castle. Coming up over the brink of the hill, Art couldn't help but smile when she saw the familiar form of the castle looming above. She followed Snape through the gate onto the school grounds, waving when she caught sight of Filch, who stood in front of the entrance to the school.

"Professor…Eldrige…" Filch nodded his head to each of them in turn, greeting them briefly before offering to carry something. Snape didn't let him touch the herbs, and seemed to remember that Art was still carrying one of the packages. He relieved her of the parcel silently, striding into the castle without uttering a single word. He didn't even bother to say goodbye.

Art shook her head. What had she expected? They may have had a truce, but that didn't mean that Snape had to like her or be nice to her. Turning to Filch, she smiled and thanked him when he took her bag for her, carrying it as he escorted her back to her room.

Upon entering the room, Art sighed and dropped onto her bed, utterly content to be back at Hogwarts. She had missed it, despite some of the more traumatizing experiences she had been through within (and without) its walls. Strange as it seemed, Art was beginning to think of Hogwarts as a sort of home, and she realized that she had missed it nearly as much as she missed her old home in Sussex.

There was something comforting about being back, and although she had just been in Romania that morning, the whole holiday seemed to be a distant memory, and the whole experience seemed to have taken on a dreamlike quality. Art thought about it and wondered if Snape felt the same way. Perhaps he even missed it, although she was pretty sure that he was just as glad to be back as she was. She felt like she knew so much about him now, as though she had been privileged to see a part of him nobody else had. Of course, she soon realized that she really had only seen a tiny piece of him, and that she really knew very little about the man himself.

x…x

Art was immediately reinstated to her janitorial duties when school started again, and one of her first tasks was to polish the suits of armour on the first floor. This wasn't a difficult task, but it was very time consuming, and though she had started early that morning, she had only completed one corridor by late morning. Sighing, Art leaned against the wall, her back and arms aching from her non-stop labour. She glanced over and realized that she wasn't too far from the staff-room, and on a whim, Art decided to go inside. She could work off whatever time she spent in here during lunch. Art wanted to find a book she had come across on herbology that looked somewhat interesting.

Entering the room quietly, Art noticed that both McGonagall and Snape seemed to be off-duty, and they were sitting at the long table in the middle of the room, conversing quietly. Actually, Art realized as she looked for her book, McGonagall was the one talking; Snape was merely reading and occasionally grunting noncommittally in response to McGonagall.

Finally locating her book, Art pulled it from the shelf and chose a seat near the end of the table, not too far from the two teachers. McGonagall noticed Art and smiled at her. Snape just kept reading.

"Well, Miss Eldrige, it's been a long time since I've seen you about. How was Romania?"

Art cast a nervous glance in Snape's direction, but he seemed completely absorbed in his book, so she replied honestly. "It was…interesting."

"Is that all?" McGonagall seemed genuinely interested in how it had been.

Art shrugged. "Well, nothing really happened. I mean, we were only picking herbs."

"I've heard rumours that you were ill for part of the time."

Nodding, Art grimaced, still feeling a little queasy at the thought of those few horrible days. It would be a long time before she could eat Fruity-O's again. "Yeah, Professor Snape said I had something like gnomonia."

McGonagall seemed to understand what Art meant immediately. She knew how horrible gnomonia could be. "Oh? And did Severus take care of you?"

Surprised by that question, and a little scared to be answering when the subject of that question was sitting only a few feet away, Art stuttered slightly. "Oh…er…well, yes, he did." She particularly remembered how he had rescued her from the snow, but she didn't want to bring that up. That had little to do with her illness.

McGonagall cast a glance over at Snape, who had continued to read his book unperturbed by the conversation happening nearby. It looked to Art as though the Head of Gryffindor House was sizing up the dark-haired professor. "I see. And did he treat you decently the rest of the time?"

Art was saved a reply.

Snape suddenly threw down his book, sitting up and glaring at McGonagall. "Do you mind? Have I now been refused even the slight privilege of sitting down for a few minutes and reading without you interrogating everyone who has come in contact with me?"

"Severus, please. I am merely questioning Miss Eldrige about her trip."

"I can see that!" He hissed. "And while you're at it, you might as well ask her if I really did force her to sleep in the stable while we were in Romania. Go ahead," Snape snarled. "Ask."

"Really, Severus," McGonagall exclaimed, drawing a hand defensively upward. "I hardly think this is appropriate. If you cannot control yourself then I will leave."

Snape glowered at her, "Please, do."

Huffing, McGonagall hastened from the room, casting one last reproachful look in Snape's direction.

After a few moments of silence, Snape returned to his book, and Art gathered enough courage to ask, "Professor, why are you so…so critical of her?"

"Critical?" He stated softly, turning his deadly gaze upon Art. "I cannot possibly imagine why. Perhaps it is the way she follows my every footstep, determined to find some flaw in my character." Snape eyed her warily her for a few moments before looking back at his book and adding, "Is it any of your business?"

"Well…n-no, but…"

"Then why don't you leave, Quinn? You're quite nearly as bad as she is." It was a cursory comment, stated in an offhand way, but it stung just the same.

Art sat in silence for a minute, trying to think of something to say. She thought that they had developed a sort of understanding. Snape didn't have to like her, but she had begun to hope that he didn't hate her anymore either. Frowning, Art realized with a sudden jolt that the truce was over. Nothing had changed. Snape still remained an enigma to Art, and he still hated her.

_Whew, another fascinating experience with Snapey Dear. (Don't ever call him that to his face. He'll kill you.) Hope you liked it!_


	8. Winter Thaw

_Haha, well, here's some more. Oh, and the Latin phrases are indeed Latin. It's simple Latin, but Art doesn't understand anything unless it's simple. _

"Quinn, is it possible for you to even brew a simple potion?" Snape's voice drawled boredly as Art looked nervously at the book in front of her.

She was terrified, considering that it was her first lesson since they had returned from Romania three weeks ago, and for the fact that she wasn't sure she could brew a simple potion. Art had made potions before by looking in her parents' old books, but that had been at home, and she wasn't sure she had completed them all perfectly. Now Snape was hovering, vulture-like, over her, watching her every movement. He hadn't corrected her yet, but he had that expression on his face that seemed to say "I'm counting every mistake you make, and believe me; I will let you know about all of them in a moment."

It was only a simple remedy for basic poisons, but to Art it seemed like hell. Snape was emanating his usual disapproving aura to the point of arrogance, obviously expecting Art to completely bungle the easy task. It didn't help that he had reminded Art that this was his field of expertise and that it would be nearly impossible for her to easily escape chastisement for any mistakes. Art truly began to understand the misery his students must have felt each day in his class.

Finally, the potion appeared done, and Art turned hesitantly toward Snape, who inspected it thoroughly. He smelled it, checked its consistency, observed the dark reddish colour, and even ladled a small amount of it into a glass phial, holding it up to the light and eyeing it warily. Setting the sample down on the table, Snape turned his attention to Art, carefully looking her over before stating, "A decent job. It would save your life, but it would not keep even the weakest poison from making you ill." He said this with a patronizing air, but his condescending tone lessened as he added, "Next time stir it three times c_ounter_ clockwise. You'll find that it works better that way."

Art nodded silently, just grateful that she hadn't completely messed up. Snape didn't seem impressed, but then again, nothing impressed him. She waited for him to dismiss her, but the lesson didn't end just yet.

"Alright then. You've brewed the potion. Now clean it up. With magic _only_," he added darkly.

Art's eyes widened. He had taught her cleaning spells long before the holidays, but she had trouble performing most of them, and she hadn't practised at all during the break. What really rankled her was the fact that he knew that.

After several failed attempts, any surprise Snape may have had at her success with the potion had worn off, and Art was cast from the dungeons with a dark warning that if she couldn't perform the spell next week, Snape would make her stay until she figured out how to do it, even if it meant being there all night. Art returned to her room, so dejected that she couldn't even bring herself to write to her parents, which usually comforted her. She just fell asleep. Sleep always helped.

x…x

"Well, Eldrige? What do yeh make of it?"

Both Art and Filch stood staring at the wall, trying to ascertain the origins of the orange mash that was stuck to it. It looked as though it had already hardened, which made scraping it off out of the question. Poking it nervously with her wand, Art grimaced.

"I think it dried like concrete. I don't know what it is, but it won't come off easily."

Filch apparently agreed. After staring at the smear on the wall for several silent moments, he looked at Art, "So…yeh still know that cleaning spell?"

Art flinched. Obviously she didn't.

Sighing, Filch resigned himself to the fact that he would have to ask for help. Again. "Well, yeh go help Professor Sprout in the greenhouses while I find Professor Snape. He can help with this mess."

Art fled at the merest mention of Professor Snape. She didn't see Filch again until dinner, although she had wandered down the fourth floor corridor to see if Snape had been able to get rid of the mysterious orange mash on the wall. It didn't surprise her when she saw only a clean expanse of stone with no sign of orange anywhere.

Filch seemed preoccupied when Art joined him at their little table, and she decided not to bother him with conversation. She pushed a few buttered potatoes onto her plate and picked half-heartedly at them, glancing toward the head table, where the teachers ate and interacted. Art giggled when she saw Trelawney accidentally spoon some peas into her goblet, which she had already tipped over once.

Her merriment was cut short, however, when she noticed Snape glaring at her from his place at the table. His food remained untouched as well, and it seemed as though he had been staring her way for a while. Art winced. Why did he hate her?

Unable to eat at all, Art waited until Filch gave her permission to leave. He didn't have another job for her to do, so she slowly made her way around the castle, not exactly sure what to do. She wasn't tired, and she had already written a letter to her parents. Art had hobbies, but February was not the best time to be climbing trees, and most of her books remained at home. Supposing she could go to the library, Art began to wander in that general direction, hoping she could remember where it was.

Finally finding the book-filled chamber, Art carefully entered, wondering where she should start. Perhaps she could find an interesting book on defensive spells. She was quite sure that it would be a good idea to have a basic knowledge in those, especially considering that she never knew when some angry Potions Master might 'accidentally' hex her.

Thinking about Snape seemed to make him appear, and as she turned down one particular aisle of books, Art caught sight of the professor, prowling slowly past the shelves, gazing boredly at their contents. Whirling, Art started to walk hurriedly away, but it was too late. Snape had noticed her.

"Quinn!" He hissed in a voice just barely loud enough to attract her attention.

Art turned hesitantly, "Why, hello, Professor." She attempted a smile.

Snape scowled at her. "Filch informed me earlier of your, ah…inability to perform a simple cleaning charm." His face smoothed out, but his eyes remained cold as he made a show of trying to remember something. "Yet, as I recall, I believe I taught you that spell quite a while ago." Pausing, he spoke again just before Art could say anything, noticing with particular relish the way she squirmed under his glare. "Ah yes, you were supposed to be practising this week, weren't you? Have you forgotten it already, Quinn?"

Shaking her head, Art faintly mumbled an excuse. It wasn't a very good one, and even if Snape had been able to decipher what she said, he wouldn't have cared.

"Now listen, Quinn, and listen well," he suddenly came nearer, advancing on her menacingly. "This is the last time I will tolerate your sloppy work. Should you mismanage or refuse to do one more spell, I will personally see to it that your lessons with _any_ teacher will come to an end. You will forever remain an incompetent fool. _Do you understand_?" He emphasized the last three words quite clearly.

Art nodded quickly, clutching the bookshelf behind her with terror, as if it might spring to life and crush her tormentor. This didn't happen. Snape merely whirled around and stalked away, his black robe billowing behind him.

Art was left alone, still pressed nervously against the bookshelf as she wondered if Snape really did have the power to keep her out of lessons for good. She dearly hoped not…

x…x

"Eldrige," Filch prodded Art awake, waiting in the other room with an impatient expression on his face as Art slowly got up.

"Yes sir?" She asked groggily through the doorway as she stumbled about, looking for a clean pair of pants.

"I need yeh to hurry. We'll be helping in the Great Hall today. The 'eadmaster wants it to look especially clean for the…er—staff meetin'."

"There's a meeting?"

"Of course. He always has some sort of social event for the teachers on Valentine's Day."

"Valentine's Day?" Art suddenly came to life with a jolt, springing into the other room. "It's Valentine's Day?"

"Yes," Filch answered, somewhat surprised.

"Oh." Art shrugged her shoulders and wandered back into her bedroom, combing through her tangled hair. Valentine's Day had never been very important to her. Even today the news came as a disappointment. She had been hoping for a quiet night alone, perhaps cuddling up on her bed and reading a book. But now her hopes were dashed by this party of Dumbledore's.

She and Filch spent all day in the Great Hall, helping the house-elves prepare it. Art did not really concentrate on her work, sulking about her evening of quiet reading that was now lost. The day dragged on, and it felt as though it had been a week before Art was finally allowed to sit back and observe as students and teachers began to filter in. The house-elves had disappeared, and Filch was sitting at the head table this time. Apparently it was alright to sit there this one night. Glancing back at their small, deserted table with a sad expression, Art slowly made her way toward the head table, sitting down cautiously at the very end.

Absently watching students enter, Art suddenly noticed Snape as he strode irately through the doorway, but only because he was at least a head taller than most of the students. Snape was one of those teachers who were blessed with that infernally terrifying ability to tower over people. It assisted greatly in intimidating students…and janitors.

Of course, preoccupied as he was with his bad temper, it only took Snape a few moments to realize that his surroundings were somehow different. Strange. The normally grey walls seemed to have turned pink overnight, and the floating candles were also differing shades of red and pink. Shuddering, Snape stopped, pivoted on his heel, and walked back out. He suddenly wasn't hungry anymore.

Art frowned as she watched the Potions Master leave. She hadn't known the meeting was optional. Glancing furtively around, she saw that most of the other people in the hall were too involved in conversations with each other to care about one small assistant. Quietly rising, Art crept softly away, easily disappearing in the mass of students and squeezing her way toward the exit.

Once out in the corridor, Art began to wander back toward her room when she heard her stomach rumble. She decided that a detour toward the kitchens wouldn't be a bad idea. It took Art several minutes to find the entrance, and even then, she stared in a perplexed manner at the painting before she remembered which piece of fruit to tickle. It was the pear, of course, which Art could barely reach, but finally the painting swung aside, allowing Art entrance into the large chamber.

Hundreds of house-elves scurried around busily, making sure that the banquet was going smoothly, and they barely had time for someone as timid as Art. She merely inched her way toward the nearest table, trying not to step on any house-elves. Too busy paying attention to her journey through the mass of house-elves, Art didn't notice that there was somebody else sitting at the table until Snape's drawling voice addressed her.

"Quinn," he looked her up and down as she froze. Apparently uninterested, he turned back to his goblet, swirling the amber contents around in a bored manner as he asked offhandedly, "Shouldn't you be in the Great Hall? What made you think you could leave?"

Art took this as an invitation to sit down. After all, Snape seemed incapable of being anything but sarcastic and/or somewhat rude. She allowed a tiny house-elf to supply her hurriedly with a plate of food and a glass, watching it scurry off before turning toward Snape and answering him.

"Well, I saw you leave, so I thought…" She trailed off as he glanced disgustedly at her.

"That was your mistake, Quinn. You thought."

Art frowned, but refrained from retorting. She was too scared to argue with Snape. Instead, she busied herself with her food, ingesting it quickly to avoid being trapped in the kitchens with Snape for longer than was absolutely necessary. After a few moments, she pushed her plate away, fiddling with her wand a little nervously. Art wasn't in the mood to read anymore, but her other idea was far more dangerous, and a little frightening. Finally, she plucked up the courage to stand slowly, trying not to attract Snape's attention, which she did anyway by trying to be sneaky.

"And just where are you off to now, Quinn?" He didn't seem particularly interested; he was merely using his powers of interrogation to make Art squirm. However, his question pierced straight to the heart of Art's previously shifty attempt at leaving.

"Um…I was just going to, ah…do something…outside, maybe. I—er—have to go now." She raced from the room, making Snape immediately wonder just where she was off to in such a hurry. Her behaviour was very suspicious and he was, after all, a teacher. He decided that it would be wise to follow her and make sure she wasn't getting into any more trouble.

Prowling silently behind Art, Snape made sure to stay hidden in the shadows, his black robes assisting in keeping him out of sight as he followed the girl. She didn't seem particularly sure of where she was going, but soon Snape realized that she indeed seemed to be up to no good. He waited inconspicuously in the hallway as Art dodged into her room and emerged after a few moments, bundled up in her heavy cloak and a very fluffy blue scarf. Snape watched carefully as she walked obliviously past him and back toward the nearest exit.

Trailing after Art, Snape took in his surroundings as he followed her outside, and immediately recognized the courtyard. It looked different, strangely desolate under the pale winter moon, but Art seemed to find it a perfect place, and she hesitantly stood in a secluded corner that was somewhat protected from the wind. Glancing around furtively, Art drew her wand carefully and pulled a piece of tattered paper from her pocket. She had trouble reading it, but eventually seemed to get the general idea of whatever was written on it, and she pointed her wand at a bare potted shrub, speaking in a shaky voice:

"_Hiemaqua_!"

Snape watched in curiosity as the twiggy bush suddenly became encrusted in ice. Had Quinn just performed a successful spell? He himself had never heard of that spell before, although he knew several others that could just as easily freeze an item. Could it be that she had a hobby for inventing spells?

Slightly surprised, he continued to watch as she lifted her wand after checking her paper again and stated, "_Dominesilva_!"

The shrub did not do anything for a moment, but as Art moved her wand slightly to the side, it began to lean in the same direction, and when she flicked her wand, it plucked its roots from the soil it was in and shook itself free of the ice encrusting it.

Once again surprised at what he saw, Snape furrowed his brow before stepping out of the shadows and revealing his presence in a low voice. "Ah, Quinn. I see you have begun to try your hand at spells that are somewhat more…unconventional than what you've been learning."

Art gasped in shock and dropped her wand, causing the bush to fall back into place. "Professor! I…I was just…"

"Experimenting, Quinn. Which—if you will recall—is against the rules." He slowly approached, eying her with a new expression far more calculating than any he had given her before.

"Sir, please—I wasn't…"

"Shut up, Quinn," he snapped irritably. After a short silence, Snape finally finished assessing her and addressed Art, "Your knowledge of Latin is...regrettably minuscule. As for your phrasing…it could use work."

Art wasn't quite sure what to make of this strange development. Was Snape actually helping her? "Sir, I'm not sure I understand—"

"Of course you don't," he replied shortly, his old annoyed expression returning. Glaring at her, he finally sighed and turned for the castle, looking briefly over his shoulder and beckoning for Art to follow. "Come with me, Quinn."

Art obeyed, trailing closely behind the professor, afraid of what he was going to do to her. Was it possible for staff-members to get detention?

As they hastened through the hallways, Snape turned his head slightly so that he could see Art from the corner of his eye, asking in a frighteningly soft voice, "Where did you learn those spells, Quinn?"

"I—I made them up sir. I borrowed my parents' books and sort of…just taught myself. I don't know very many…" she hastily added. She didn't want to infuriate him anymore.

Snape did not reply.

It soon became apparent where Snape was leading Art as they descended the staircase into the dungeons, travelling through one long corridor and into the Potions classroom. Snape did not stop there, however, and Art hesitantly followed him into his office. He immediately strode toward a shelf of books, ignoring Art for quite a while until he seemed to find the book he wanted before he turned toward her.

"Come here, Quinn."

Art cautiously made her way forward, slowly glancing at the page to which he had opened. It was an old textbook, but it didn't seem to be the typewritten contents that he wanted her to pay attention to. She peered closer at the book, suddenly catching sight of what looked like several handwritten notes crammed into the margins and written over the text itself.

"Is this…yours?" She asked softly, wondering why Snape was showing it to her.

"Yes," he murmured, gazing at the book with an expression Art had never seen on his face. It was distant, as though he was remembering something from long ago.

"You mean…you actually made up…spells?"

His gaze returned to her, and he answered, "Yes, Quinn."

"Professor, why…why are you showing this to me?"

Snape's eyes hardened and his mouth set in a grim line. "Because, Quinn, I need you to understand just how difficult and dangerous this 'hobby' of yours can be. It may be simple now, but it will not remain that way. Do you understand?"

Art looked once more at the book before returning his gaze. She nodded, still amazed that he was sharing this information with her. "Yes sir."

"Good." He closed the book slowly, turning and placing it back on the shelf. "Now, Quinn, you may return to your practicing."

"Alright."

Snape watched silently as Art left, tracing his mouth thoughtfully with a long white forefinger. Quinn had surprised him tonight. He sat down at his desk with the thought that though it was nearly impossible to impress him, she had come very close. Perhaps she was not as incompetent as he liked to think. Was it possible that he could have been wrong about Quinn?

x…x

"That was decent, Quinn," Snape admitted grudgingly as Art showed him her cleaning spell. She had practised, and was very proud of her work. It still wouldn't completely remove dark stains, but it had definitely improved.

"Thank you," she smiled shyly, not sure quite how to take this somewhat masked praise. Snape had been treating her differently, with hardly as much malice, and it was a little unnerving. Art wondered if they had finally reached that middle ground between hate and like. Snape didn't have to like her, but it was somewhat comforting to know that she didn't have to worry as much about that cold black gaze boring into her back.

"I wasn't complimenting you, Quinn," Snape hissed darkly.

"Oh," Art looked down abashedly. Perhaps she had thought too quickly about a truce.

It so happened that at that moment, just before Snape could say anything more, the door burst open, revealing a rather annoyed Filch in the doorway.

"Eldrige," he growled before turning to Snape and wheezing, "Professor. The 'eadmaster would like a word with the both of you in his office."

"Now?" Snape inquired in a mildly curious tone. Why would Dumbledore wish to speak to them?

Filch nodded.

Snape scowled and brushed past Filch, "I see. Quinn, hurry up."

Art didn't need another warning. She followed quickly, also curious about Dumbledore's summons. Fidgeting nervously, especially as they ascended the spiralling staircase to the headmaster's office, Art didn't realize that it was alright to enter until Snape opened the door and waited for a few moments, glaring impatiently at her. Starting, Art dashed into the room, not noticing the slight grimace and shake of the head that the Potions Master gave her as he closed the door.

"You wished to see us, Headmaster?" Snape inquired in a soft drawl.

"Ah, Severus!" Dumbledore smiled benevolently at him before turning his gaze to Art. "Miss Eldrige, so good to see you both." He pushed the oh-so-familiar bowl of candy across the desk, which Snape declined as always. Art was about to take one of the peppermint-like candies, but halted when Snape cast her a withering glare.

"What is the trouble, Headmaster?" Snape pressed Dumbledore, urging him forcefully past any friendly chatter.

"Don't be absurd, Severus. There is no trouble," Dumbledore chuckled.

"Then why did you call us here?" Snape asked through gritted teeth. Art carefully backed away from him.

"Well I have heard rather good things about your lessons with Miss Eldrige."

"From whom?" Snape asked darkly.

"I have my sources," Dumbledore smiled.

Snape merely glowered at him.

"As I was saying, I am rather obliged to you for taking on this task," the headmaster continued to smile patiently at Snape, who was losing his patience with every passing moment. "However," Dumbledore stated, and at this his face grew serious, "I am afraid we must end the lessons for now, as it would be best for you to concentrate on getting your students prepared for their exams."

There was a long silence. Art half expected Snape to leap on top of the desk and shout for glee, but he merely stared at the headmaster for a few moments before replying simply and with a blank face, "Oh."

"Now of course you will resume teaching her next year, but until then," he turned his attention to Art, "Miss Eldrige, your lessons are at an end. You will of course still be cleaning the dungeons on Tuesdays, but Severus will not be able to assist you with any more spells for now."

Art nodded, completely understanding and somewhat grateful. She would be very happy to have a break.

"Is that all, Headmaster?" Snape inquired softly, a hint of steel in his voice that dared Dumbledore to answer 'no.'

"Yes, Severus, that is all I wished to tell you. You may go now."

Snape turned on his heel and left with Art following behind at a safe distance. They both trailed down the stairs together, but as they neared the bottom, Snape suddenly stopped and turned to Art.

"Quinn…" He stated, looking at her with a searching gaze. It seemed he didn't see quite what he wanted to, because he remained silent for a few more moments before turning away and continuing down the rest of the stairs.

Confused, Art tried to catch up, calling to him when he turned down the corridor without another word. "Wait, Professor!"

Snape did not turn, nor did he even glance around his shoulder. A few seconds later, he disappeared around a corner. Art didn't follow.

Several thoughts crowded her head as she returned dejectedly towards her room, but one single thought kept creeping to the forefront, pushing all else to the back. What had Snape wanted to tell her, and why had he stopped? Could it be that he was disappointed by Dumbledore's news? The very idea stunned Art, but she had to seriously contemplate it, especially when she realized that she too might actually miss the lessons. She liked learning, and despite his shortcomings and his blatant sarcasm, Snape was a very good teacher. Sighing, Art wondered if she had uncovered one more facet of the mysterious man, and what exactly that would entail…

x…x

Art cleaned the dungeons alone the next week, polishing the suits of armour in the corridors, tidying up the classroom, and even organizing the assortment of pickled things in Snape's office. He rarely allowed people in his office without being in there himself, but Filch had relayed the message that Snape wanted his things neatly arrayed on the shelves, so Art complied. She noticed that his collection of pickled stuff contained everything except pickles themselves, and it took her quite a while to organize it all. However, she eventually did finish, standing back and admiring her work before timidly exiting the room. There was something scary in the silence of that dark room, even without Snape hovering threateningly within its walls.

Finished with her duties in the dungeons, Art wandered up the staircase, passing Snape as he descended the flight of stairs, absorbed in a stack of papers that seemed to be a bundle of homework he had just collected.

Art passed by quietly, sure that he didn't want to be disturbed.

She was stopped however by the familiar drawling voice emanating behind her, "Quinn. Finished already?" Art turned to see Snape raise an eyebrow sceptically. "Are you sure you did a thorough job?"

Art nodded, "Yes sir."

He stared at her for a moment before nodding once, "Very well." The professor turned and continued his downward path into the dungeons.

Art watched him leave, waiting until he had vanished from her sight before making her way back to her rooms. Had he just spoken to her? It seemed a small thing, but Art had become so used to being ignored whenever he passed her that it was a stunning blow to her sanity when he actually acknowledged her. Art wasn't sure what was happening, and she wasn't sure that she liked it, but she was completely sure of one thing, and it was the fact that she couldn't do anything about it.

_Well, that's what I have so far. Go on, click on that little blue button and review now! I know you want to... _


	9. Tispy

_Alright, this chapter is shorter than the others, but it has a TON of information in it, so pay attention. This chapter has one purpose and one alone. You will soon see what that purpose is..._

With her lessons put temporarily on hold, Art didn't feel nearly as frantic and worried all the time. It was almost as though a dark cloud had been lifted from her and she could see things she had been too preoccupied to notice before.

One thing Art noticed was the difference in how many people dealt with depression or severe stress. Classes were becoming more difficult and homework longer, which hurt the teachers just as much as the students. And because everybody else was putting in longer hours, so did the janitor and his assistant.

Art didn't mind—she was just grateful not to have any more lessons to worry about. Unfortunately nobody else felt the same.

Filch, for example, had taken to sulking in his office for long periods of time. He had sent Dumbledore his resignation six times in the past month. Of course, he always got over it and let the headmaster talk him out of quitting. Despite this, Art still couldn't help feeling a stab of panic every time he signed that paper. Filch was grumpy, and often not very nice, but he usually looked out for Art, and she couldn't bear the thought of being left alone.

On the other hand, when it came to stress, Art also took note that the professors differed just as much from Filch as they did from each other. McGonagall was a prime example. She merely needed to uncover a stack of freshly written essays and play blaring old classical songs on her ancient phonograph while she sat at her desk with her gold-rimmed spectacles dangling at the end of her thin nose. Grading papers always seemed to cheer her up.

Flitwick, too, was completely different than the other two, mostly due to his somewhat cheerful personality. He seemed to find solace and balance in the company of others. However, considering that most people barely noticed him, much less his problems, he had to search in the lower, much shorter classes. This made the kitchen house-elves the ideal audience. He could remember many a riveting discussion with those often overlooked characters over a mug of butterbeer and a warm slice of raspberry pie.

Sprout was another interesting study. She loathed wallowing in self-pity, and complaining to others just wasn't her cup of tea. Her companions were, and had always remained, the gardens. Out there, she could enjoy the crisp night air and walk among her plants to observe their growth. She always found busy work in helping her beautiful rose bushes grow faster and greener.

And then there was Snape. He hated grading, he loathed pie, and growing things just didn't seem to grow when he was around. He disliked his job as well, but he feared that if he threatened to resign, Dumbledore might actually take him seriously. This however, did not keep him from writing a resignation several times. In fact, he had a desk drawer full of them should the necessity to quit ever arise, but he never went quite that far. Instead, Snape kept to himself and holed up in his storeroom.

He wasn't very fond of liquor, especially since he knew the devastating effect strong drink could have even on the most powerful minds, but when the need arose, he always had a bottle of good stiff port to fall back on. One glass could relax him enough to help him clear his mind and organize his thoughts. This process had been happening with an alarmingly increasing frequency, however, and Snape found himself going through a bottle in less than two weeks. Perhaps this drinking was becoming a bit of a problem. It certainly wasn't helping his mood at all.

And then one day, by pure chance, Art happened to stumble onto him while he was in one of these moods. She had been cleaning his office, but a strange muffled groan caught her attention. It seemed to have emanated from one of the back rooms. Art had never been back there, and she wasn't about to change that fact. Indeed, she had actually started for the door and was about to leave when she heard a loud bump and a very slurred oath quickly follow.

Biting her lip, Art turned from the exit and decided to help. Whoever was in that back room seemed to need assistance. She cautiously opened the door, peering into the dark depths of Snape's personal chambers. The main theme seemed to be black, and there were a few piles of cluttered books or cauldrons around, but that wasn't what Art noticed immediately upon entry. No, her eyes were drawn instead to the figure sprawled half-conscious on the floor. Coming closer, Art realized two very unlikely, but honest, facts. First, it was Snape. Second, he was drunk.

"Professor?" She asked with shock, paralyzed by the utter incongruity of the situation. He hardly drank! Filch had told her himself that Snape disliked the influence alcohol could have on the mind. Was there a reason for him to drink now?

"Quinn?" Snape tried to sit up, his voice very annoyed as he frowned in her general direction. "Get out."

Completely embarrassed by her intrusion, Art hastened to comply. Unfortunately, she slipped on an empty bottle on the floor and landed with an undignified bump on her backside.

"Quinn—" Snape growled darkly from just behind her.

She tried to pick herself up, but apparently she wasn't fast enough. Rising with surprising speed for an intoxicated man, Snape took hold of her arm and pulled her up with rough force. However, he was still unsteady, and when Art stumbled, they both fell back down. Snape's face registered slight surprise as he landed on top of Art, and she tried unsuccessfully to remove herself from under him. This did not work.

"Professor," Art gasped, but was unable to say anything more.

Snape peered owlishly at her for a few moments, as if he was trying to figure something out. He leaned in closer and Art cringed, fearing some horrible chastisement. But he didn't speak. Another thought crept timidly into her mind, a thought that Art quickly pushed away.

Nothing happened.

Instead, Snape merely grunted bad-temperedly and rolled off her, letting Art pick her own damn self up this time. She did so with haste, stumbling for the door and leaving. That would most assuredly be the last time she _ever_ tried to help anybody.

Shaking as she returned to her room, Art sat down at her desk and let her head drop forcefully onto the smooth wooden surface. What had she been thinking? Art was most embarrassed by her thoughts than by anything else that had happened, and she was glad that stories about people who could read minds were false. Had she actually believed that he would have…? No, it was a ridiculous notion, and obviously not a very good one. After all, Snape still hated her—didn't he?

Cringing, Art decided that a bit of cleaning might help her forget the incident, or at least numb the vivid images and emotions that flooded her senses. She figured that it wouldn't be a bad idea to start with her own room. Gazing at the disorganized pile of clothing on her floor, Art reached into her pocket for her wand. Now would be a good time to practice her cleaning charms anyway.

Frowning, Art dug into her other pocket when her first pocket proved empty. This one was empty and just as devoid of wands as her other one. Panicking, Art commenced a frantic search of her entire person. Where was her wand? Surely she had brought it with her to the—_oh no_…

The dungeons.

Art shuddered, realizing that her wand was not with her but lying somewhere in the vicinity of Professor Snape. She wondered with a morbid sense of doom if she dared go back and retrieve it. Everything suddenly seemed to have gone darker, and Art only felt a cold, hard knot in the pit of her stomach. She knew she had to get it back.

Fighting her dread all the way to the dungeons, Art finally found herself back in front of the door to Snape's chambers. She knocked timidly, but did not receive a reply. Perhaps he had left, Art thought with hope.

She entered with caution, scanning the floor for a sign of her wand. Breathing a sigh of relief, Art caught sight of it lying peacefully beside an upturned cauldron. She reached for it and hurriedly stuffed it into her back pocket, determined to leave before Snape returned. Her hand just barely touched the doorknob, however, when a white hand closed vicelike around her arm, impeding her progress.

Art whirled as Snape uttered in a soft, dangerous voice, "Quinn?" He raised an eyebrow, obviously curious as to why she had returned.

"Sir, I—" Art breathed in a voice hardly louder than a whisper. She would have reached for her wand, but Snape still held the arm she could have grasped it with, and she couldn't quite manage to get it with the other hand in such an awkward position, pressed up against the door as she was.

Snape silenced her with a slight shake of the head. He eyed her carefully as he closed the distance between them, and Art—looking away—couldn't quite help but resurrect her old thoughts.

There was a moment's pause, and Art looked hesitantly up. She met Snape's gaze briefly, wondering what that blank expression on his face could mean. His eyes narrowed for a single second before he suddenly moved in one serpentine swoop.

Art didn't know what to do. She wasn't even sure what was happening until it was over. Had he…had Snape just…her mouth tingled and she felt feverish and giddy, which gave her the impression that he had indeed.

The grip on her arm loosened immediately, and Art glanced back up at Snape. His face was once again unreadable and unfathomable. She couldn't quite understand what had happened, and it seemed that maybe he felt the same way too. It took him a moment to speak, and when he did it was short and brusque.

"Get out, Quinn."

Art obliged.

Cleaning was now out of the question as Art returned to her room, although she had successfully located and retrieved her wand. She slid slowly under the sheets on her bed, leaning back and trying to sort out what had just occurred. Snape could have just stayed silent and left her alone. She would have left. But he hadn't. Instead, he had stopped her, silenced her, and then kissed her. Was he trying to prove something? Was he really that drunk? Art didn't know, but she was sure of one thing, and that thought frightened her. She had liked it.

x…x

Two weeks passed during which Art distracted herself with work. She ignored the reminders, the thoughts, even the dreams. _Especially_ the dreams. Art was too timid to approach Snape the next day, and he seemed to be avoiding her as well. She didn't see him at all during those next two weeks, though she had thought about him quite a bit. It helped a little that she had not cleaned the dungeons since; Snape had requested that Filch do the cleaning. Still, Art wondered, was he angry at her? Had his loathing for her increased so much that he couldn't stand the sight of her? Or was there another reason the Potions Master avoided her?

"Eldrige!" Filch's reedy voice interrupted Art's thoughts.

"Yes sir?" She snapped into consciousness, just barely realizing that she had been drooling on the desk.

"Stop fallin' asleep on the job, Eldrige," Filch chastised her. "You've no reason to be so tired, 'specially since I've been doin' half your work for yeh." He trailed off into a muttering incoherent grumble.

"I'm sorry!" Art apologized. "I just didn't sleep well."

"Well then get the dungeon work done early and go to bed. You've been awful strange lately." Filch shooed her away from her desk.

"But sir!" Art protested quickly, "I t-thought…h-he asked y-you to…"

Filch waved away her protests, "Get!"

Art got.

As she descended the cold stone staircase, Art's mind began to reel. How would she tell Snape? How would he react? She didn't even notice that she had stopped breathing until she nearly passed out. Gripping the handle to the classroom door, Art closed her eyes, gulped, and entered quickly.

When she heard no sound, Art cautiously opened an eye and looked around. The room was empty. She sighed with relief. If she hurried she could clean and escape without ever bothering Snape. The idea appealed very much to her.

It was not to be.

Just as Art had finished dusting and stacking a large pile of thick yellowed textbooks on a desk, she heard the door open. Dodging behind the desk, Art tried to hide behind the books. Unfortunately, it wasn't tall enough to cover her entire face.

Snape, however, seemed too preoccupied with a stack of papers in his hand, and he stalked across the room and into his office without so much as a glance in Art's direction. She waited for a few tense moments to make sure he wasn't coming back out of his office before she decided it was safe to resume working. She picked up the first few books and began transferring them to a shelf on the back wall.

In her hurry to flee, however, Art picked up a dangerously tall stack of books and began to make her way precariously to the shelf. Just as she thought she had made it, Art stepped on the hem of her pants and slipped. Eleven heavy textbooks went soaring into the air and Art landed with an undignified crash on the stone floor, soon joined noisily by all eleven potion books.

Inevitably, the door opened and Snape emerged with a look of irritation on his face. As Art stared up at him from her pile of books, she noticed that he looked tired too. His expression changed when he saw her, and now Art could not tell what he was thinking.

"Hello, Professor," Art nervously greeted him with a ghastly attempt at a smile.

He cast her a bored look. "Quinn," his voice was calm. "I see you've returned." He let the tiniest smirk cross his face and added, "Well, my peace was certainly enjoyable while it lasted."

He resignedly approached and flicked his wand at the books, returning them to their proper place. Facing Art, he looked her up and down for a moment before turning away and making his way back to his office. Just before he entered, however, he glanced back at Art and spoke.

"Don't forget the cauldrons."

Art frowned as he disappeared behind the door. He seemed completely unchanged Did he even remember what had happened? She shook her head. It didn't matter. The good thing was that he didn't hate her—or was at least hiding the fact really well.

_Alright, hooray for short chapters that are...short...anyway, I tried to keep characters in line, but don't blame me if I got them a bit off. After all, neither of them has been in such an...interesting situation before._


	10. Never?

_I know you have all been waiting for this chapter, so here it is...finally. Yay!_

Art began the day's work in the kitchens early the next morning. She was still extremely tired, which made it difficult to concentrate. In fact, she had trouble remembering the cleaning spell Snape had already tried to teach her a total of three times. Art was happy that she didn't have lessons with him anymore.

Fortunately, Art was snatched from the kitchens before she could do much damage and dragged into helping Hagrid trim the winter roses in the greenhouses. It wasn't difficult work, but occasionally Art would drift into a doze and accidentally cut the roses off. Each execution was heralded by a mumbled "oops" before the whole process began again.

Hagrid noticed Art's difficulty with the shears, but he was too kind to bring this issue up, although he occasionally winced when he heard the shears snap closed around another flower. He realized that this couldn't last much longer, and he was just about to tell Art that she could take a break when Snape stalked into the greenhouse, his black eyes scanning the room until he caught sight of Art.

"Quinn!"

Art whirled around, cutting another rose from its stalk, "Professor!"

He glanced disdainfully around, eying the clean-cut shrubs Hagrid had trimmed, and the shredded ones Art was destroying. "If you are quite done, ah…_mangling_ the rosebushes, I have work for you."

Art turned to Hagrid, who smiled and nodded that it was alright for her to go. She nervously followed Snape as he led the way, barely remembering to drop her shears on a table near the greenhouse exit. Trailing behind the Potions Master with a slight sense of dread, Art attempted to guess what sort of work he had in mind for her. Surely it was too early to clean the classroom or his office since he still had classes to teach today. Art was so deep in thought that she didn't notice when Snape stopped. She bumped into him, cringing when he whirled on her.

"Would you be so kind as to _pay attention_?"

"Sorry," Art mumbled softly, realizing that he wasn't in the mood to be trifled with at the moment.

Snape glowered at her for a moment before he turned and opened the door in front of them to reveal a tiny square room that looked very much like a closet to Art.

"Very few people ever cross the threshold into this room, Quinn," Snape addressed her in a menacing tone. "Take care not to drop anything, lose anything, or in any other way bungle the job. Do you understand?"

Art looked into the room's dim interior. It was Snape's storeroom. "What am I doing?"

"One of the few things you can accomplish without needing assistance. Cleaning." He left Art to wonder if he had just complimented or insulted her.

Alone, Art glanced around the small square room, eying the tall shelves completely filled with countless vials of varying shapes and sizes. It became immediately apparent that Snape was having a busy week. Art knew that he usually maintained a fairly structured and organized workplace, which seemed very different from the scene before her.

There were empty vials scattered everywhere, some tipped over or upended, others lying in cluttered heaps in dark corners. Hen's tooth lay with the dragonfly wings, and moth hair was placed where the lacewing should have been. Art blinked in tired bewilderment. Was it even possible for the Potion's master to let things be so disorganized?

Art sighed with her previous sense of dread now hovering directly over her head, daring her to screw up just once. She began to organize, a process that seemed easier right at first than it really was. Art soon realized that most things on the bottom shelves belonged on the top ones, and that the ones on the top shelves were usually so old that the labels were worn and nearly indecipherable. Fiddling with illegible labels, and juggling several jars as she climbed the ladder up to a precarious perch by the top shelves, Art was amazed that she didn't just fall, or at least drop the vials.

She was nearly finished, and in the process of carrying one of her last loads of glass containers up to the top to be organized when she caught sight of a small glass bottle lying in a forgotten corner of a shelf, just barely out of reach. Putting down her assorted collection of potions and potion ingredients, Art leaned cautiously toward the dusty bottle, reaching as far as she could while still feeling secure on her perch. The ends of her fingers barely brushed the bottle, leaving dark smudges on the thick layers of dust covering it.

Bracing one knee against a nearby shelf and gripping the ladder tightly with one hand, Art reached for the bottle once again, standing on her tiptoes. She managed to roll the mysterious container closer this time, until she was able to take hold of it and return to the safety of the ground. Rubbing away the dust, Art was reminded of old stories about genies and other spirits that resided in disused bottles. She wondered what could be in this old bottle.

Curious, she tried to read the label, but on such an aged container, it was nearly impossible. The label, tattered and faded as it was, seemed pretty much nonexistent. Frowning, Art decided that there was no harm in opening the dark bottle, so she took hold of the stopper and pulled. It did not budge.

Pulling harder, Art gritted her teeth and scrunched her face up, groaning with effort. The stopper finally came loose with a sudden pop, making Art tumble onto her backside while the stopper went flying in one direction and the bottle rolled in another, dribbling its blackish contents over the floor.

Art gasped. "Oh no!" She exclaimed with a small squeak of horror. She hurriedly tried to clean up the mess, reaching for the bottle and quickly uprighting it before it could spill anymore. Finding the stopper, Art shoved it back into the mouth of the bottle, which she tucked away in a dark corner of the room. Fortunately it had not spilled too much, and Art was able to wipe the syrupy fluid up, leaving no trace of her hash-up behind, except a slightly pungent odour.

Sitting in a corner and leaning against a shelf, Art sighed heavily with relief. As she tried to calm down, however, the acrid potion's smell became more prevalent until it was nearly unbearable. Art winced, sniffing the sullied cloth to make sure it was the source of the stench. It was. She grimaced and thought with fervent assurance that the potion in that bottle must be spoiled. For a brief moment, Art wondered if she should tell Snape or not and try to avoid any suspicious questions, but then—because she had just inhaled the fumes of such a bad potion and exposed her lungs to that horrible stench, Art fainted.

x…x

Snape wasn't used to finding unconscious bodies in his storeroom. So, when he opened the door with the intent of searching for rat-tail and wormroot, he nearly tripped over the figure that lay sprawled in a corner, obviously catching a few well-needed winks of sleep.

"Quinn," he grumbled, stepping over her outstretched leg. He didn't wake her, but only because he knew that she was tired. He would probably be sleeping too if he didn't have classes to teach. And besides, perhaps if she rested she could actually do her job without completely breaking down. The thought appealed to Snape, especially since Art's help was appreciated, if not entirely welcomed by him.

However, when he returned after a horrendous two hours of double Potions with the Gryffindor and Slytherin first-years, Snape drew the line. "That's enough, Quinn. Get up." He nudged her foot impatiently with his as he returned his ingredients to their proper places. This failed to affect her.

Frowning, Snape wondered if there might be something wrong with her. She did seem a little pale upon closer inspection. Looking around, he tried to discern what the problem was. Nothing was scattered on the floor or looked out of place, and she didn't seem to have bumped her head. In fact, it looked as though she had just gone to sleep.

Waving his wand at her, Snape levitated the unconscious girl up three flights of stairs, down a long passage way, up two more flights of stairs, through two hallways and a small corridor, up one more set of stairs, and finally into the infirmary. He set her down on the nearest empty cot, which happened to be near the very back of the long chamber. Snape was very glad at that moment to be able to use magic. He would have never in all eternity physically carried Art to the hospital wing. Ever.

Madame Pomfrey seemed busy, but Snape caught her attention as she rushed by, explaining Art's predicament in a tone that indicated he had little time to waste in such a place.

"Fainted?" The matronly woman asked as she examined Art.

"Yes, and I need you to find out why."

"It could be anything. She could be tired, she might have ingested or inhaled something, she could have even bumped her head. I can't rule out anything yet. Where did you find her, anyway?" She asked Snape.

He wasn't listening anymore. Why hadn't he noticed that bitter odour before? His eyes narrowed and he left without another word, retracing his path back to the storeroom. A familiar, pungent smell besieged his nostrils, causing him to wince. It was no surprise that Art had fainted. A spoiling potion was strong enough when it was fresh—this one smelled several years old.

Snape held his breath as he searched for an antidote. He finally found one and returned to the hospital wing, where he caught sight of Madame Pomfrey who was attending to a student with a broken arm.

She glanced his way and took a quick glance at the vial in his hand. "Hmm…yes, this looks as though it'll do the trick." She brushed past him and began to help another student.

"Aren't you going to administer it?" Snape asked in a soft, dangerous tone. He clearly was not in a patient mood.

Madame Pomfrey stood up straight for a moment, facing him head on. She was definitely not in the mood to deal with irritable teachers. "I fully trust your capabilities as _Potions Master_ to administer a simple antidote. However, if you do not feel up to the task, you may wait patiently until I have sufficient time to attend to Miss Eldrige."

Growling, Snape made his way back toward Art. Fine. He would give Quinn the antidote and make sure that it worked, since Madame Pomfrey was too busy to do her own job. Unstopping the vial, Snape trickled the tiniest bit in the corner of Art's mouth, sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair and watching her, waiting to see if she would wake. He silently dared the girl to sleep longer than an hour. With him in such close proximity to her, and in such a bad temper, if she remained unconscious for long, she might just fail to wake up…ever.

x…x

Art opened her eyes blearily, weakly gazing around the room. A wave of disorientation washed over her as she realized that she wasn't in her room. Was this…the hospital wing? She glanced to her side and suddenly jumped. Was that…Professor _Snape_?

"Professor?" She exclaimed.

The man looked up from his reverie, his face tired and creased with something that might have resembled concern. Thos lines vanished, however, as soon as Snape saw that Art was indeed awake and seemed well. Angry furrows replaced the worried lines.

"Quinn."

"Why am I here?" Art asked in a whisper, looking around nervously. "Did I really faint?"

"Yes."

"Did you find out why?"

"Yes."

"Did you cure me?"

"Yes."

"Did you sit here and wait for me to wake up?"

"Yes." At this particular question, Snape's mood seemed to darken, and his tone became soft and icy.

"H—how long was I sleeping?" She asked timidly.

"Nearly twenty-four hours." He glowered at her, "Do _you_ happen to know why you were unconscious that long?" Snape turned the question on her.

Art shook her head, her eyes wide with alarm. She didn't like questions.

"Because you opened a fermented spoiling potion."

"What does a spoiling potion do?"

"It spoils things," Snape snarled bad-temperedly. "This one, however, could have killed you. Do you now understand why I warn you not to touch things you know absolutely nothing about?"

Art nodded dumbly. After a long silence during which Snape eyed her carefully, she apologized. "It won't happen again, sir."

"Take care that it doesn't," he growled, glowering at his knees now.

Art shifted uncomfortably, wishing he would either say something nicer or go away. She pushed herself into a sitting position and finally mustered the courage to speak, "Professor?"

"What?" He didn't even look up at her.

"Were you here that entire time?"

Snape's brow furrowed and he turned to her; "Yes…" his black eyes searched her as he added suspiciously, "Why?"

Art avoided his intent gaze. She shrugged, "I just…thought that was…sort of nice…for you to do."

He grimaced, obviously disgusted, "Don't, Quinn. I do not do things because they are 'nice,' but because I must. Do you understand?"

"Oh…" Art looked down at her hands, wishing with every fibre of her being that he would just go away and leave her alone.

"Now if you are quite finished," Snape stood abruptly, "I have better things to waste my time on."

Art watched as he turned and left. It seemed almost as if he could peer into her very soul and know what she was thinking. But she shook this thought away. Snape had probably just gotten tired of talking to her. After all, he had been sitting at her bedside for nearly an entire day.

Realizing this, she decided that it was time for her to start moving as well. She got up, noticing that she felt much better after such a long rest, and she made her way back to her room. A hot bath and a fresh change of clothes completed Art's healing process and she found herself searching for Filch to see if he had a job for her.

She found him scraping mud off the floor in front of the entrance to the Great Hall. He looked rather busy, so she joined him and began to help.

"Eldrige," he greeted her in a somewhat decent tone. "Glad you're back."

She smiled, grateful that he wasn't too angry at her. With two people on the job, it didn't take very long to finish, and soon they had removed most every grain of dirt from the floor. They had just moved to the stairs and had started cleaning those when they were interrupted by the headmaster himself.

"Ah, Miss Eldrige. I was just looking for you."

"Me, sir? Why?" Art stood up, taking the opportunity to stretch her sore legs.

"I need to speak with Professor Snape, and Madame Pomfrey hinted that you were the last to see him. Have you any idea where he might be?"

Art frowned and shook her head, "No, sir. He left without telling me anything."

"Ah, well, thank you for your help, anyway." Dumbledore smiled at Art and continued down the stairs, calling back, "If you happen to see him, please inform him that I am searching for him."

Art nodded and returned to cleaning. She couldn't help but wonder where Snape was, and if he was missing because of her. Maybe she had scared him off. The very notion was ridiculous, but Art couldn't help but feel responsible. She had been the last to see him, after all.

Finally Filch let Art leave for lunch, which she ate hastily and with great relish, considering that she hadn't eaten since the previous day. She had a small amount of spare time afterwards, so she decided to walk outside. Most of the snow had melted and winter had grudgingly given way to spring. The weather was still somewhat icy, but it was one of those rare occasions when the sun peeked through the clouds, and Art enjoyed it immensely. At least until she caught sight of the black-cloaked figure standing on the bridge nearby.

Frowning, Art was about to walk away when she remembered what Dumbledore had asked her. She resignedly turned around and approached with caution.

"Professor?"

Snape raised an eyebrow at her, but did not acknowledge her presence in any other way. He merely stood and stared over the bridge at the frosty grey cliffs on either side and the swirling white mass of water down below.

Art stood beside him and gazed at the scene, wondering what he found so fascinating.

"Um…sir, have you been out here since this morning?"

It took him a moment to reply, and when he did it was with great annoyance. "Yes."

"The Headmaster is looking for you."

"I know."

"Aren't you going to come inside then?"

"No."

Art bit her lip. Snape wasn't being outright mean or cruel, but he was coming across as very unwelcoming. "But sir, aren't you cold?"

"A little," he conceded in a dark tone. He was tired of questions.

"Then why are you out here?"

He turned to her for a moment, "Because, Quinn, I wished to think. Of course, I don't expect you to understand that concept." He looked away again.

Art silenced herself, wondering if it might just be best if she left. After a long moment of intense deliberation, Art began to sidle away when Snape seemed to have forgotten about her.

"Quinn, where are you going?"

Art stopped, "Back to the castle?" She replied hesitantly.

"Come here."

Art returned to her place, glancing curiously at Snape and wondering what he was doing. He looked her way, eying her carefully for a moment before turning back toward the scene in front of them.

There was an indeterminably long pause before he inhaled and spoke, "Quinn…"

Art watched him as he hesitated. For once she could see that it was taking him great effort to keep his face neutral. Finally, he turned to her and stated in a serious voice, "You wanted me to leave the hospital wing today. Why?"

Strange. How had he known that? Had Art really been that obvious? She wondered why he was asking her that question, and suddenly a well of emotion burst from within her and she exclaimed in a distressed voice, "It wasn't my fault! I was just trying to do what you told me to and then I fainted, but that was because I spilled that potion because I was tired because I couldn't sleep because I've been stressed and worried and you've been so mean to me and I _hate_ you and it's all because I can't stop THINKING ABOUT YOU!" She immediately stopped, realizing that her shouting was echoing off the cliffs and that Snape was staring at her.

Finally, he voiced his thoughts. "Are you quite finished?"

Art suddenly felt timid again. "Professor…I'm sorry; I really didn't mean to yell at you."

He raised an eyebrow, "Yes you did."

"But I…I didn't mean…when I said…I don't exactly—"

Snape silenced her. He hated excuses, especially pathetic ones, and for some inexplicable reason, or perhaps because he found it appealing when she tried to make up an excuse, he felt the need to kiss Art again. So he did. He moved closer, watching Art intently as he touched her cheek with cold white fingertips and leaned in. She didn't back away, so he put his lips on hers and closed his eyes.

It was more difficult to kiss her this time, considering that he was completely sober and actually knew exactly what he was doing, and it didn't help that Art's scarf kept getting in the way. He felt a little unsure as he cupped her face with both hands, but he noticed with satisfaction the way Art leaned into him when their lips met. It was as though she had forgotten how to stand and she was depending on him to hold her up. He liked that idea.

Indeed, Art seemed to like it too—so much, in fact, that she did actually fall when they parted, landing heavily on the ground. Her cheeks flushed bright red when she picked herself back up, smiling bashfully and trying to brush her cloak off. Snape suddenly had the feeling that this had not been a good idea.

"I—er…I, um…I should probably go now," Art babbled, trying not to make too much of a fool out of herself. She turned to go, but Snape caught her by the arm, halting her.

"Quinn," he murmured, staring at her with a dark, intense expression on his face.

"Yes?" Art asked expectantly, hoping he might explain what had just happened.

"Don't tell anyone," he stated simply.

Disappointed but not surprised, Art nodded and backed away. She managed to turn back to him one last time and ask, "Sir, are you coming?"

Snape considered the idea briefly before answering, "No. I still need to think."

Art nodded and made her way back to Hogwarts alone, completely and utterly aghast. Just before she entered the castle, she took a fleeting glance behind her and saw the Potions Master still standing in the same place. There was one difference, however; he was leaning heavily on the rail, and he had his head in his hands. He looked…sad...

_Ahaha! A twist! Anyway, yeah, that's it so far. Tell me if I exceeded expectation, or if I totally need to take a remedial course in writing..._


	11. Break

_Alright, here's more. Enjoy!_

Art was confused. Art was always confused, but this time she had good reason to be. She was standing in Snape's office, waiting for the man himself to enter. He had requested—through Filch, of course—that Art meet him there. She had a good idea why he wanted to see her, but she didn't know if it was an ideal place for her to be. Finals were next week, and all the teachers seemed horribly on edge. Art was worried. What if he didn't say what she wanted to hear?

Her thoughts were interrupted with a start by the door, which burst open due to a hassled professor's efforts to enter. He strode across the room, his black cloak billowing behind him and then settling around his legs as he dropped a load of freshly collected homework on his desk next to the other four piles of papers and numerous samples of various potions. Art watched as Snape sat down and leaned his elbows on the desk, running a hand through his dark hair.

After a few moments, he suddenly seemed to notice Art, and he eyed her briefly before stating, "I see you received my message."

Art nodded, whispering quietly, "Yes, sir." She dearly hoped that she could manage to avoid incensing him just this once.

"And you are wondering why you are here—what I could possibly desire of you."

Again she nodded, biting her lip as she always tended to do when she was nervous. "Yes."

Snape sighed almost imperceptibly and looked at her for a long time, tracing his mouth thoughtfully with one long bony finger. Finally he spoke. "There isn't an easy way to say this, Quinn, but I cannot stop this…_thinking_."

Art didn't notice she was holding her breath as he continued.

"I loathe you," he stated emphatically, "I _despise_ you with every fibre of my being."

Art almost broke down and cried. She felt horrible. Clenching her hands and staring down at them, she bit her lip until it bled.

"And yet…" Snape's voice was very near now, and Art looked up to see him standing in front of her, gazing pensively in the vicinity of her right foot. "Quinn," he looked at her face, his eyes glinting with some hidden emotion, "I'm not so sure about that anymore." His expression was absent and vague as he said this, and his voice clearly hinted that he would rather be elsewhere, doing anything but talking to her.

"Really?" Art sniffed hopefully.

Her response triggered something inside him, and he sneered, "You don't have to be so pathetic about it."

"Sorry," she mumbled.

"Will you stop apologizing?" He snapped. Apparently tender emotions put him in a bad mood.

"Sorr…I mean…um…" Art trailed off timidly. She didn't know what to say to him.

Snape paced in front of her for a few moments, thinking before he stopped and glared at her, "And you?" He obviously wanted to know how she felt.

"Oh! I—er…um…well I—" Art looked hopelessly at him and shrugged.

He sighed and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. Extending a hand, he beckoned Art nearer, whispering in a defeated voice, "Quinn."

Unsure, Art stood and approached, wondering what he was going to do. He reached for her hands, slowly bringing her closer as he scanned her face with his calculating eyes. Even poor oblivious Art could see that he was somewhat nervous.

"Yes, Professor?"

"Are you afraid of me?" He seemed amused at the very idea, turning the corner of his mouth up slightly.

Art nodded, "A little."

She expected him to say something to the effect of "you shouldn't be" or "why?" but he merely narrowed his eyes slightly and leaned in toward her. It was the third time he had kissed her, and by this time Art had grown to like it a lot.

Opening her eyes when he finally pulled away, Art watched him as he slowly and carefully stated, "But our…feelings are mutual…?"

Art nodded again, "Yes."

Snape stared at her for a few more moments before returning to his desk. "Well then," he sighed and absently rifled through a pile of papers before continuing, "I think it is time to set a few boundaries."

Art wasn't sure she liked the idea, but she listened attentively, merely happy that they had finally come to an agreement on some sort of mutual emotion.

"Public displays of affection are, as of now, entirely forbidden."

Unable to argue with that, Art replied quietly, "Alright."

"Also, I am not obligated to do anything for you, and you are in no way obligated to do anything for me. Favours are out of the question."

"Okay."

"Abnormal nicknames are also prohibited."

Art vehemently agreed with that statement. "Yes sir."

She waited for another rule, but Snape seemed to have trouble articulating this last one. "Quinn…" He paused, tracing his mouth again as he watched her, "you remember the little…_incident_ we had in Romania, correct?"

"Yes?" Art remembered quite clearly how angry he had been at her for prying into his personal belongings.

"I want absolutely _no_ questions about my past. I will volunteer information when I wish, but you are _not_ _to pry_. Do I make myself clear?"

She nodded, "Yes, sir."

Snape seemed at ease with her responses, and he inclined his head toward her, "Good. You may go now, Quinn."

"Um…okay," Art hesitatingly turned for the door. Her hand had just barely brushed the doorknob when his voice echoed from behind her.

"Quinn."

"Yes?" She turned quickly, looking at him hopefully.

"Don't be so timid. It's irritating."

"Sorry," Art automatically apologised before realizing what she had just said. Fortunately, Snape didn't seem to have noticed it as he was already immersing himself in the grading of a set of papers written by his fifth-year potions class. She slunk out before he could acknowledge her again.

x...x

Art didn't see Snape again for a very long time. Not within speaking distance, at least. Finals had begun, and Snape seemed to always be in the dungeons, only emerging at mealtimes. Art always glanced his way at dinner, but he was perpetually distracted by both students and teachers alike. He didn't notice Art at all.

She was used to being ignored, and finals were only temporary, so Art tried to take it in stride. Still, she couldn't help but feel a little lonely. Even Filch was rather flustered and hurried. Art felt isolated. Helping Filch was not fun for Art anymore since he had taken to snapping at her when she made a mistake or was too slow, and nobody else paid any attention to her.

Art was immensely relieved when finals ended. It was as if the entire school had come to a stop and time became meaningless. The only problem was that the term was almost over, and Art would have to go home in a few weeks. She realized that she wouldn't see anybody from Hogwarts for the entire two month duration of the summer holidays. That included Snape.

Appalled by the thought that they would be separated just as she was beginning to like him, Art opted to make a visit to the dungeons. How bad could it be? After all, with final exams over, Snape was sure to be in a better mood.

Timid as always, despite the doubtful probability that she would be received discourteously, Art only made it as far as the door to the Potions Master's office before she decided that this was a bad idea and turned to leave. Of course, with her impeccable timing for disaster, Art pivoted right into the man she was trying to avoid, who had been curiously watching her from behind and attempting to figure out what exactly she had been trying to do.

"Professor!" Art hastily backed away, bumping into the wall behind her.

He raised an eyebrow, "Taking a little stroll through the dungeons, Quinn? This atmosphere hardly suits you."

"Actually—" Art began to correct him, but realized that her tone did not come across as very respectful, so she amended, "…Um—sir…I—I was just…" Unsure of how to word her next statement, Art trailed off, hoping Snape might say something she could reply to.

"Yes, Quinn?" He simply prompted her, waiting expectantly for her to speak coherently. It was obvious she didn't know quite what to say, but he still took some sort of sadistic pleasure in watching her fish for words.

"I…it's just that…I haven't really…seen you in a long…long time."

Snape frowned, "Didn't I see you at dinner last night?"

Art nodded. She had indeed seen him, but it had been a fleeting glance. They had not even spoken a word. "Well yes, sir, but—"

"Then you must have seen me. Or did you start to feel lonely since then?"

Flustered, Art replied in a slightly raised voice, "Sir, I just wanted…and y-you just…and I hate it when you…" She stuttered herself into a deep dark hole.

A smile played around his lips, and he came a bit closer. Touching Art's shoulders with the ends of his fingers, he pulled her nearer, his smile widening when she struggled.

"Stop it!" She tried to wriggle free, "Don't you know that I still hate you?"

Snape cut her off, putting his mouth to hers and drawing her tightly against him. He didn't let go until he felt Art go limp, and even then he held her by the shoulders, watching her face carefully.

"That was…you are so…" Art paused and blinked, trying to clear her head. "…Can you—do that again?"

He obliged. Once they had parted for a second time, he looked at her and murmured, "Now, Quinn, you are going to have to resume…whatever you were doing before. I have business I need to take care of with the headmaster."

Still numb and slightly confused, Art nodded, "Okay." She stumbled dazedly down the corridor, not even realizing that Snape watched her until she disappeared around a corner before he turned and made his way toward the headmaster's office.

x...x

Art found it very odd that even after finals were over, Snape still managed to be constantly busy. He seemed unable to sit down and have an intelligible conversation with Art. Perhaps he would stop her in the hallway, smile and say something sarcastic at her, or even brush her hand lightly with his as he passed her, but he never did anything beyond that. It was extremely awkward and confusing for Art, who was afraid he might be trying to avoid her.

It seemed as though the few remaining days before school ended lasted for an eternity, and it was with a sense of unreality that Art woke on the morning of her last day at Hogwarts. She would have to wait until September to see any part of the castle again. That wait would be made longer by the fact that she would miss Snape, strained though their relationship was. Looking down at her belongings, Art found the ticket that Filch had given to her that Dumbledore had given to him to give to Art so that once she was in London she could board the train that would take her home to Snape, Sussex. Looking at the name printed on the ticket, Art smiled wryly. She still hadn't told Snape about her hometown. The idea of how he might react frightened her.

Art stuffed the ticket in her pocket and looked at her small pile of personal items. Her packing was already finished since she had taken care of it the previous night, and Filch was too busy assisting the house-elves move the students' things down to the train station to give Art something to do while she waited for the train to come. So she gathered her things and left her room, not even trying to look back. She knew it would only depress her. Once outside, Art ran into a small army of house-elves, who insisted on carrying her things down to the station for her. Devoid of tasks to keep herself busy, Art looked around helplessly. She gazed sadly back at the castle before making her way down the path toward Hogsmeade, where the students had already begun to gather.

"Quinn," Snape's voice suddenly stopped Art midstride.

"Yes?" She turned toward him, her face breaking into a wide smile. She had not expected him to find her before she left.

Snape paused, suddenly caught off-guard. He could hardly remember the last time somebody had smiled at the sound of his voice like that. It was such a strange feeling to see such a smile of pure joy directed at him.

"Professor, I didn't think you'd…you know, say goodbye."

Snape caught hold of himself, managing a decent scowl, "Neither did I."

Art bit her lip, but mustered enough courage to ask, "So…you'll be going home then?"

"Yes," Snape replied shortly.

Art suddenly realized just how long two months was. She really would miss Snape and his curt mannerisms.

Snape seemed to have similar thoughts, and he stated brusquely, "You may write. You do own an owl, don't you?"

Art nodded, her smile immediately returning, "Yes."

"Good. Then write." He looked away for a moment, scanning the horizon briefly before gazing back at her and adding, "I may even reply if I feel so inclined."

"I'd like that," Art replied shyly.

There was a moment's pause before Snape nodded toward the station, "You had better hurry. The train will be arriving shortly."

"Sir, don't you…aren't you going to…" she vaguely indicated the train in an attempt to get her point across.

"I have more efficient means of transportation, Quinn," he replied with an arch expression.

"Oh…okay." She began to turn away, but couldn't quite bring herself to leave yet. "Sir…I…" Art didn't know how to ask for what she wanted, but fortunately it was easy for someone like Snape to figure it out.

He let his rule about public affections slide just once, seizing Art and kissing her with fierce energy. Looking at her after they parted, his expression softened slightly and he kissed her once more, gently touching her lips with his and cradling her in his embrace. There was a moment when he let some tender emotion show, placing his forehead against hers. He muttered softly, "Goodbye, Quinn," and let her go.

"Bye," Art whispered. She walked away before anything else could happen, her senses completely overwhelmed.

Snape was so intent on watching her leave that at first he didn't notice that the headmaster had approached.

"Severus, I've been looking for you." Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled as he glanced from Snape to Art, who was swiftly disappearing down the slope toward Hogsmeade.

"Yes, Headmaster?" Although surprised, Snape was not startled, and it took him a moment to tear his gaze from Art.

"A certain issue has come up, Severus, and I need you to do me a favour."

"What?" Snape had a bad feeling that his summer holiday was about to be immensely shortened.

"There are a few people I need you to contact for me." Dumbledore held out an envelope and a piece of paper attached to it with instructions written in spidery handwriting.

"I have arranged for you to stay with the family at this address, I believe their names are Sep and Moira."

Snape only half-listened as he scanned the paper.

Dumbledore continued, "They have two daughters. One of them is only a few years younger than you. You should get along quite well with them."

Snape looked up for a brief, tense moment. He highly doubted this assurance. He rarely got along with people, much less quite well. Returning to his instructions, he paused, leaned in, and peered carefully at the paper. When he looked up, his expression was one of quiet outrage. "This must be a joke, Headmaster."

"Hmm?"

"_Snape_, Sussex?"

Dumbledore smiled fixedly, "I assure you, Severus, this is not a joke. It is quite a serious matter."

"How long is this supposed to take?" Snape asked suspiciously.

"A few days at the most, although you are quite welcome to stay there as long as you wish. I merely need you to deliver this letter for me and wait for a reply."

"Isn't this why we have owls, Headmaster?" Snape asked with a hint of ice in his voice.

"This letter is important, Severus. I need you to be there to make sure the recipients fully understand its meaning."

Snape scowled, but saw that Dumbledore would argue to the end. He grudgingly resigned himself to his fate. "Fine."

_Hey guys, I'm back again. Hope you liked the last chapter. Please review! You only have to write a few words, in contrast to my many, many words. I want feedback! I'd love to hear what you have to say! _


	12. Summer

_Hey guys, here's my latest chapter. Sorry it's taken so long! I had it done on Saturday, but I went hiking before updating. Unfortunately, my hiking buddies and I had an Art moment and got lost, so I haven't been able to update til today. But it's here now, so read please!_

Art liked milk. It was her comfort drink, after all. There was something to be said about the restorative power of a cool glass, or the relaxing influence of a mug of warm milk and honey. She loved the way it tasted, no matter how it was prepared. Strawberry and chocolate milk was tasty, cold cereal and milk was delicious, and milkshakes were simply to die for. Art couldn't help it: she adored milk.

And nothing seemed to compare to fresh milk taken from her own family cows. It was so difficult for Art to describe the difference, the smooth texture, the creamy taste, and it was even more of a challenge for her to realize that she was finally home and could enjoy the experience of drinking her favourite kind of milk. She didn't mind that her parents and fifteen-year-old sister were all staring at her; Art merely sat at the table and slowly sipped at her glass of milk until it was completely empty. Only then could she drag herself away from the table and make her way upstairs to her room, where she began the process of unpacking.

It was a painful process, especially when Art pulled her fuzzy blue scarf from her trunk: the scarf Snape seemed to hate with a passion. She frowned, thinking just how long her summer would be. Sighing, Art scolded herself and remembered that it wasn't as though she had left Hogwarts for eternity. She was returning to the castle in two short months. She would see Snape again.

x…x

Severus Snape hated travelling. He couldn't understand, therefore, why Dumbledore always insisted on making him run his errands for him. It irked him immensely.

His mood did not improve when he apparated in the front lawn of an aged, two-storey farm house nestled in a small copse of very large trees. It looked positively quaint, an attribute he strongly disliked. He was sure the people within it were just the same; friendly, homely, and quite unintelligent. What sort of wizards became farmers anyway?

Snape's predictions proved somewhat correct when a plump, middle-aged witch answered the door, smiling benevolently at him as he explained who he was and why he was there. Nodding enthusiastically and ushering him inside, the red-haired woman explained that her husband was still working outside with their oldest daughter, but that they would be coming in for dinner shortly.

The woman, Moira, insisted that he sit at the round wooden table in the kitchen, asking him politely if he would prefer anything to drink. Although Snape declined, she still pushed a glass of water and ice in front of him. Apparently 'no' was a foreign word to these people. To his horror, she began asking him questions about his personal life—how he was associated with Dumbledore, what his job at Hogwarts was, if he liked it. Fortunately he was spared having to answer most of these.

"Mum!" A young girl with dark reddish-brown hair came flouncing into the kitchen, closely followed by a rather muddy, furry…thing. "Herbert left a trail of mud across the hallway again! We need to fix that back door so he can't…" she suddenly stopped speaking, looking curiously at Snape, narrowing her brown eyes in suspicion. "Who are you?" She asked in an impertinent tone. She looked about the age of some of his students, and Snape was suddenly grateful that she was not. This brazen girl must be a squib. Somehow, that thought didn't surprise him. From his observations, there seemed to be nothing in the house that would differentiate these people from ordinary muggles. They appeared to be embarrassed by magic…or very inept at it.

"Justine," her mother chastised her. "Be polite. This man is a professor from Hogwarts. He's come on business."

"Oh," Justine seemed as though she wanted to say something else, but she decided against it. Snape wondered what exactly she had been about to say.

However, he was suddenly distracted by the furry thing—which he had decided was some sort of sheep-dog—as it made its rounds around the room, sniffing everybody out. To his great distress, the dog plopped its great forepaws on his chest, smearing thick brown clay across his robes.

"Oh! Bad dog! Herbert! Bad dog!" Justine tugged on the thing's collar, while her mother apologized profusely and offered her help in cleaning him off.

Snape merely flicked out his wand and dispelled the mud, glancing at the dog and pointing his wand at it as well. His robe now clean again—as well as Herbert—Snape managed to turn his attention back to the two women just in time to be interrupted once more. He barely had time to notice that this household was astonishingly busy before he had to resume the process of introductions and explanations, this time with the patriarch of the family.

Septimus was a very large man, but he wasn't at all what anybody would call fat. Every square inch of his tall, wide body seemed to be made of thick, cord-like muscle that stretched the fabric of his flannel shirt every time he moved. Although some people might have found him intimidating, Snape was not fooled at all. He could see that beneath that thatch of sandy hair, Sep didn't have a whole lot of intelligent thought. The man seemed very good-natured, however; this trait showing in his large smile when Herbert broke free of Justine and came bounding up to his master. When Moira introduced him to Snape, he took the Potions Master's hand in a firm grip, shaking with the same enthusiasm he might use if he was greeting the Prime Minister.

Soon they were all seated around the table, pestering Snape with small-talk and politely worded questions while they waited for dinner to finish cooking. Snape hated small-talk and he answered with terse, single-word sentences, avoiding their friendly, curious gazes by looking around the room. He had heard that there was another daughter. Where was she?

His eyes lighted on a picture hanging on the wall to his left. It was easy to recognize Sep, and immediately after that he discerned Moira and Justine as well. But that other girl…Snape suddenly peered closer at the picture. Long red hair framed two bright grey eyes that sparkled up out of a timid face on which sat a nervous smile. Shifting his gaze swiftly to the others, Snape was about to inquire as to the identity of the girl when the back door opened and footsteps echoed in the hallway as Sep and Moira's eldest daughter trudged into the kitchen with a basket of eggs clenched in her hand.

"Sorry I'm late, Mum. I forgot to get the eggs this morn—" The girl suddenly halted abruptly, staring with wide-eyed horror at the black-haired man sitting at her kitchen table.

"Quinn," Snape stated, raising an eyebrow at her.

Art dropped her eggs.

"Artemis!" Moira exclaimed, half standing as if she was about to go help her daughter clean up.

Art swiftly knelt, hiding her burning face behind a curtain of her hair as she started to pick up the broken eggshells with trembling white fingers. She flinched when two black shoes appeared in her line of vision, expecting something sarcastic from their owner. Instead she heard a softly muttered word and saw a yellow light envelop the eggs as they repaired themselves.

She picked up the basket, standing and looking nervously up at Snape, who seemed half-irritated, half-amused.

"Sir…what are you doing here?"

"Our gracious Headmaster saw it fit to make me his errand boy. If I had known you would be here—" Snape trailed off for a moment, which Art took advantage of, dodging around him and dropping the basket on a counter, fleeing toward the door.

"Art, where are you going?" Moira inquired with worry. "Dinner is nearly ready, dear."

"I'm not hungry," Art replied hastily.

Snape watched as she fled before turning toward Art's parents and excusing himself. He followed Art outside, finding her leaning against the barn door, her back against it and her eyes closed. Her chest was heaving, and her hands clung to the solid wood behind her as if she was trying to make sense of the dream world around her.

"Quinn," Snape approached, watching her as she snapped out of her thoughts, eyeing him with wide eyes.

"Professor…I didn't think…I…"

"Stop babbling, Quinn," he stated quietly. "I am not particularly enthused about being here myself. However, due to certain…circumstances, I am here. Let's try not to make this any more awkward than it has to be. Are you coming back inside?"

Art shook her head, "I'm really not hungry."

He gazed thoughtfully at her for a moment before turning, "Very well." Snape returned to the house, leaving Art alone.

It took Art a while to gather her thoughts, and by the time she went inside, everybody else had finished the meal, and they were merely talking at the table. Art noticed, however, that Snape was oddly absent, and when she inquired as to where he was, her mother replied that he was in her room, since the guest room was too cluttered with old knick-knacks to inhabit a guest at the moment.

"What? My room? But I've barely been home for a week!"

"Art, please, calm down," Sep intervened in a calm tone.

"Where am I supposed to sleep?"

"Well, we thought since you spend so much time in the barn anyway, that you wouldn't mind staying there."

Justine snickered, but was silenced by a warning look from her mother. She thought the whole idea was highly entertaining.

Art didn't really mind that at all, but the thought that Snape had complete access to all her things still terrified her. "I have to go get my stuff," she gasped, racing upstairs and toward her room without another word to her parents.

Art didn't even bother knocking—she wasn't used to knocking on her own door—and instead burst into her room, immediately going to her dresser and throwing things into a pile on her floor or stuffing them into her pockets. She didn't notice that Snape, who had been sitting at her desk and contemplating Dumbledore's mysterious envelope, had turned and was watching her with a mixture of irritated amusement and curiosity. It wasn't until she had gathered her things in her arms that she looked up and met his gaze with wide eyes.

"Yes?" He inquired.

Art dropped nearly half of her bundle, blushing as she knelt to pick it up again. She replied breathlessly, "I'm getting…some…of my things…"

"Ah, yes," Snape responded softly, in the snide voice he always used when he was about to taunt her. "I seem to be occupying your room. Tell me, Quinn, where have you parents sent you?"

Art was sure by now that he was finding this all very amusing and was merely poking fun at her in a very sarcastic way. She knew he wasn't trying to be mean, that it just came naturally to him, but she wished he wouldn't.

"The barn," she mumbled.

"Of course," he replied with a small smile. It wasn't a friendly smile, though, and it made Art shiver. "I should have known. You are indeed the first person I have known to prefer the company of livestock over that of human beings."

"That's not…I mean, I don't…" Art finished gathering her pile of stuff and realized that she wasn't going to convince him to stop bothering her unless she left. So she made for the door, stating, "I'm leaving. I _do_ prefer the company of cows. They're nicer than a lot of people I happen to know." She glanced back with her best attempt at a glare. This surprised Snape. He had never seen her even attempt to be defiant.

Art felt triumphant for a brief moment before she turned back around and realized that she was about to miss the door. Instead of going through the door like a normal person, Art ran into the wall like a retarded person. Her face hurting almost as much as her pride now, Art fled before anything else bad could happen.

x…x

Art knew she had straw in her hair when she entered the kitchen the next morning, but she was too tired to care that everybody around the table was staring at her. She hadn't slept well that night, and all the tossing and turning she had done hadn't exactly made her look her best. It didn't help that she still had hay imprints on one side of her face where she had rested it on a haystack.

Snape merely glanced uninterestedly up at her, quirked an eyebrow at her appearance, and resumed eating. As her mother pushed a plate toward her, Art realized with alarm that the only empty chair was beside Snape, who edged away as she sat timidly in that single chair.

"Morning, Professor," Art mumbled, mashing her eggs with her fork.

"Isn't it 'good morning,' Quinn?" He sat back and watched her as she picked at her food.

"No," she replied morosely.

"Why ever not, Art?" Her mother suddenly inquired.

Art jumped a little, and Snape shifted slightly in his chair. They had both forgotten that their conversation was not private, and that Art's entire family was watching.

Art shrugged, not willing to tell her parents that she had been thinking about Snape all last night and wondering why he told her that he didn't hate her, but acted as if he did.

"I dunno."

Her parents might not have been able to pry any farther, but Snape was able to decipher the problem immediately. He stood and directed his dark-eyed gaze at her, "I am going outside for a little…stroll. Perhaps, Quinn, you should join me."

Art shook her head, "No." She didn't feel like moving anymore.

"I don't think you heard me correctly, Quinn. You should join me." His voice had softened, but Art could sense that she was now treading on very thin ice.

She picked up on the hint this time, "Oh…of—of course, sir." Standing, she turned to her father, "We'll be back…um, sometime."

"Art!" Her mother stopped her before she could go far, and both she and Snape turned to face Moira. "Have you done your chores?" She asked in a dangerous tone.

"Yes, mum."

"You fed and milked the cows?"

"Yes."

"And put the milk away?"

"Yes."

"And you remembered the eggs?"

"Yes, mum. They're on the counter."

"You put fresh hay in the byre?"

"Mum! Yes! Can I go now?" Art asked impatiently. Snape watched her with something akin to surprise in his expression. He had never seen her so openly frustrated.

Her mother sighed, "Alright. But I want you back by lunchtime."

"Fine."

Once outside, Snape looked at Art, who merely frowned and stuffed her hands in her coat pockets.

"Well, Quinn, you know the area better. You lead."

Art stared ahead for a moment before pointing to a narrow path that led from the back yard, through the tall, leafy trees, and into a small wood. "Let's go that way." She began walking down the tiny trail, and Snape followed.

After a few minutes of silence, Snape spoke softly, "You didn't sleep well last night?"

Art nearly said something sarcastic, but quelled the idea. She was still too scared of Snape to attempt playing him at his own game. Instead she simply stated, "No."

"That's too bad," he murmured, almost sincere. "And why is that?"

They were now walking abreast of each other, and Art stopped and stared at him. She peered curiously at him, as if trying to figure something out, but she didn't seem to find what she was searching for, because she shook her head and continued walking. She merely replied with a shrug, "I dunno."

"Ah, but I think you do, Quinn," Snape's voice stopped Art. "And what's more, I think _I_ know, so why don't I tell you why you couldn't sleep last night, Quinn? Hmm? Perhaps it was for the selfsame reason _I_ could not sleep, and do you know why that is?"

By now Art was frozen, staring wide-eyed at Snape. Was it possible for this man to peer right into her very mind and read her most secret thoughts? She shook her head slowly to the side, responding in a whisper, "No."

Snape turned and faced her head-on, staring her down with his cold black eyes, his face a blank mask. "It is because I could not keep you from invading my mind, Quinn. My every thought! Every dream." His face was slowly becoming more and more animated. "If I am to retain my sanity, this must stop now, Quinn!" He snarled, having taken her by the shoulders and drawn her nearer.

He suddenly caught sight of her terrified face, and his grip softened, his expression returning to its usual impassive state. He turned away abruptly and ran a trembling hand through his dark hair.

"S—sir?" Art approached cautiously and touched his shoulder, "Are you alright?"

"Yes, Quinn," he replied, facing her again. "I will be fine."

She reached out hesitantly and brushed his face with her fingertips, letting a small, faint smile cross her lips. "You were thinking about me?"

Snape hesitated, unsure about how to respond. He was fast approaching unknown territory, completely unaware of how to proceed. Finally, he decided that denying it would not work—not in this situation—so he assented, "Yes, Quinn." He watched her carefully as he added, "I really do…ah…_like_ you, Quinn." The words sounded awkward and muted, as if they had torn themselves from his throat without permission.

Art smiled suddenly. She was no longer confused. Snape had finally admitted how he felt, and she didn't have to wonder.

"I like you too, sir."

A brief smile flickered across his face, and he leaned in to kiss her. Art wound her arms tentatively around his neck, feeling warmth suddenly spread through her and settle, tingling, in her toes and fingertips as he put his arms around her waist. Neither let go, and for a long time after their kiss was ended, they stood, still holding onto the other. Art let her head fall to his chest, closing her eyes and listening to his breath. He touched her hair with a hand, twirling one curl absently between his fingers. One piece of straw that remained stuck in her hair kept poking his hand, so he pulled it out, letting it fall to the ground. Art didn't complain, even though he also managed to pull out a few strands of her hair.

"You know, Quinn…it's odd…" he murmured quietly in her ear, "For the longest time I thought…you reminded me of…her." He gently pulled her away and looked at her.

"Really?" Art was ecstatic that he was finally speaking to her like a human being, and that he was actually comparing her to that beautiful woman in the pictures.

Snape let out a low, unfamiliar sound. It was almost a laugh, but not quite, because Snape never laughed. "But you really look nothing at all like her."

Art gazed down, "Oh."

He cupped the side of her face with his hand, brushing her cheek with his thumb. "Don't sound so disappointed, Quinn." He looked as if he wanted to say more, and Art wished he would, but he stopped speaking, suddenly realizing that he was actually enjoying himself. He seemed to remember that he had business to attend to.

"What is it, sir?"

"I….have a letter to write." He stated quickly, looking anxiously toward the house. "Please…excuse me."

Art watched him as he left hastily. What was wrong with him now?

Meandering back to the house, Art wandered back inside and, on a whim, decided to drop in on Justine. She found her sister lying comfortably on her stomach in her bed, reading some sort of mystery novel. The fifteen-year-old girl seemed a little annoyed at first when Art entered and greeted her.

"Hello, Justine."

"Hi." She didn't even look up at Art.

"What are you reading?"

"A book."

Art blinked, "Well obviously. What's it called?" She tried to read the cover, but Justine pulled it away.

"Knock it off, Art! What do you want?"

"I was wondering if you wanted to do something," Art replied in a hurt voice. "Maybe we could play a game?" She asked hopefully.

"Like what?" Justine responded, her eyes narrowing.

Art shrugged, "I dunno. You could choose, I guess."

Her sister suddenly smiled, "Alright," she stated, putting her book back on the shelf and disappearing into her closet for a few moments. She came back out wearing an old, holey shirt and loose shorts. "Let's go swimming in the creek!"

Art hesitated for a moment. She didn't like water, as she could not swim well at all, but she wanted to spend time with her sister, and she was considerably bored. "Okay," she assented warily, trudging to the barn with Justine trailing after her.

Art changed behind a stack of hay bales, grabbed her towel, and joined her sister—both barefoot—down the small, worn trail to the creek on the other side of the cow pasture. They both noticed that the cows, which their father had let out earlier, followed them curiously, sniffing them and giving them friendly, playful nudges. The three cows stood on the bank by the small stream, pulling at the narrow tendrils of grass as Art and Justine waded in toward the middle of the beck, where the water came nearly to their waists. It was still cold enough to steal Art's breath as it lapped at her stomach, but with the sun nearly at its zenith in the clear blue sky, and with a warm breeze rustling the trees, it felt quite refreshing.

That is, until Justine climbed onto the rope swing hanging from a nearby tree and jumped in, drenching Art in uncomfortably chilly water.

"!!" Art spluttered, unable to form words for her shock. "Justine!" She cried, splashing water on her sister once she came up for air.

"Haha, you always fall for that, Art," Justine giggled, rubbing her backside because the water wasn't quite deep enough to jump in without hitting the bottom. In fact, after a few hours of swinging from the rope and repeatedly landing on the bottom of the rocky stream, Art and Justine were both beginning to feel the effects on their backsides.

Art winced as she pulled herself up out of the stream and put one foot on the knot in the rope. "Okay, Justine. This is my last one. Look out!"

Justine wasn't paying attention. Her eyes had suddenly gone wide as she mapped the direction the rope was swinging, and she cried, "Art! Don't—"

But it was too late. Art had already swung out and had no choice but to jump. She nearly ran into the tree, but managed to push away from it with her foot, a move that made her swing farther out over the water than she would have preferred. Letting go of the rope, Art scrunched her face up, preparing for the impact. She landed on a particularly large rock, which pained her immensely, and sent her shooting up out of the water, clutching her behind. "Ow! Owowow!"

Justine couldn't help but giggle. Art whirled on her angrily, but she stopped, her rage disappearing when she caught sight of a damp, water-speckled professor standing near the tree.

"I see you are making productive use of your time, Quinn," he murmured in a droll voice, flicking a few water droplets from his sleeve.

"Professor! What…what are you doing here?" Art exclaimed, hurriedly clambering out of the stream and drying off with the towel she had brought.

"Your mother sent me to find you. She wishes for you to come in and eat." He paused, grimacing, "Do I look like an errand boy to you?"

Art replied carefully, "Well…not to _me_."

Justine giggled behind Art, whispering something in her ear. It involved the image of Snape riding a bicycle like their neighbourhood errand boy, something Art really didn't want or need to imagine. She quickly shook her head in response, which sent Justine into peals of laughter. Snape glowered and merely whirled around, stalking away.

Art hurried to catch up, "Professor, wait!"

He allowed her to catch up, but didn't stop walking. "Yes, Quinn?" He cast a quick glance at her as she limped up to him.

"Don't go so fast…" Art panted, grimacing with every step she made.

"What happened to you?"

"I fell…on a rock…on several rocks…many times…" Art winced as she stepped on a sharp stick on the ground.

"Perhaps you should have stopped after the first time," he suggested sardonically.

Art couldn't think of a response right at first, and by the time she did, they were in the kitchen, and she was concentrating on more important business. Snape flicked his wand at Art's chair, which scooted out for her, and Art gave him a small smile before facing the dilemma of actually sitting down. Bending her knees, Art groaned and slowly edged her way onto the wooden seat, wincing as her sore backside complained painfully.

Snape raised an eyebrow, "Do you require a cushion?" He seemed to find the whole idea quite amusing.

"I'm fine," Art gasped, completely missing the sarcasm.

"I beg to differ," Snape murmured, too quietly to actually be heard by anyone. He finished eating before everybody else, but he stayed and watched Art, waiting for that moment when she'd have to stand up again.

When the time finally came, Art seemed to have forgotten about her discomfort, because she tried to stand up the way she normally would have. She almost made it to her feet before the pain set in, but when it did, it was crippling enough to completely debilitate her and force her to fall back down on the chair. By now, everybody at the table was watching her, including Justine, who wasn't nearly as sore as Art was. They observed as Art tried to stand again, leaning heavily on the back of her chair this time.

From his vantage point, Snape saw it before anybody else did, but even he did not have enough time to react before the chair went over backward, taking Art with it and leaving her in a sprawled heap on the floor.

"Pain…" she gasped in a shaky voice.

"For Merlin's sake, Quinn," Snape stood and picked her up, returning the chair to its upright position with a flick of his wand. He could clearly see that Art needed to lie down for a little while until she got her bearings straight again.

He took her upstairs, Art's mother following anxiously. Setting her down on her bed, Snape gazed thoughtfully at Art for a moment, noticing the way she had smiled at him and clung to his robes while he had carried her.

"Will she be alright?" Moira's worried voice interrupted Snape's thoughts.

"She is fine. A bit unsteady on her feet, perhaps, but then again, isn't she always?"

Art frowned at him, and he smirked back.

"She'll need time alone," he added when Art's mother showed no signs of leaving.

"Alright," she replied dubiously, reluctantly exiting the room. "I'll bring you some soup up later, dear," she called to Art. "Do you need any medicine?"

"I'll take care of that," Snape replied haughtily. He had no faith whatsoever in muggle medicine.

As the door closed, he turned back to Art only to see her sitting up and smiling at him.

"That was nice of you, sir," she thanked him.

"Lie down, Quinn, before you hurt yourself more."

She made a face, but obediently did so, wriggling under the covers. She noticed that they no longer smelled like her.

"You know, Professor," she stated softly as he rifled absently though a trunk, "You smell sort of funny."

"What?" He stopped and stood up straight, a frown on his face and a vial in his hand, "Do you want my assistance or not?" He asked her darkly.

"Oh, I didn't mean in a bad way," Art replied hastily.

Snape still seemed sceptical as he resumed his search through the trunk. "I suggest you remain silent, or I may just happen to forget the subtle differences between a painkilling potion and poison."

Art suddenly and mysteriously lost her desire to speak.

A few moments later, she heard a soft "ah" and a grunt of triumph as Snape drew a tiny vial from somewhere within the trunk. He approached Art and handed her the small amount of potion. "I believe this should take care of your pain."

Art eyed the vial suspiciously, replying, "It looks funny."

Snape's eyes narrowed, "Drink it."

She hesitantly unstopped the vial and brought it up to her mouth. Tasting it tentatively, she grimaced, caught Snape's dangerous expression, and downed the whole bottle.

"Mmm…" She groaned.

"You don't have to like it, Quinn," he snatched the empty glass from her and returned it carefully to its place in his trunk.

"Good. 'Cause I didn't."

He turned toward her again, ignoring her remark and asking, "Is it helping?"

She cautiously tried to sit up, shifting around. "Actually…it _is_!" Art exclaimed with excitement.

"Don't sound so surprised," Snape grumbled.

I wasn't…I didn't…sorry," Art mumbled.

"Quinn?" Snape sat down beside her, addressing her in a soft hiss, "What have I told you about apologizing?"

"Oh! Sor…I mean, I won't do it again, sir…"

He raised an eyebrow, but didn't reply. She was a lost cause anyway. Touching her face for a brief, tense moment, he ran his hand once through her tangled hair and stated, "Try to sleep. You look terrible."

"Thank you sir," Art muttered, sliding back under the covers, which she pulled up to her nose, her eyes peeping timidly, yet accusingly, up over the top of the blanket.

As soon as he had left the room, Art sat up and looked around. She felt too good to rest now. The potion he had given her was working wonders. Sniffing, Art suddenly realized that the interesting smell was not just traces of Snape's peculiar scent. She wrinkled her nose—it was her. She decided that a bath couldn't hurt; she should have taken one right after swimming in the stream anyway, so she got up, a little put out that she had to go all the way out to the barn to get a clean change of clothes that wasn't as itchy as the clothing she was wearing. After all, her bathroom was only a few feet away, just across the hallway. But all her clothes were in the barn.

She let out a sigh and trudged down the stairs, hoping not to be seen. She was unlucky, however, in that endeavour. Snape was at the kitchen table, being pestered by Justine and Moira, and he had positioned his chair perfectly so he could see through the doorway and into the stairwell, effectively monitoring all traffic.

He looked up just in time to catch sight of Art as she landed on the last step. "Quinn!"

Art stopped and looked up with a stunned expression, "Sir, I'm just—"

"I don't want to hear your excuses." He stated firmly, "Upstairs."

When Art hesitated, he began to stand. This simple movement intimidated her enough to snap her out of her daze, and she dashed upstairs with a speed that made her mother wonder why Art never obeyed _her_ that quickly.

Art sat in her room for a few moments, thinking. Snape was obviously not going to let her out, at least not by conventional means. So she climbed out the window. There was a small ledge on which she could manoeuvre until she reached an outstretched branch of a nearby tree and clambered onto that. It was simple work for her to shimmy around the trunk and grab hold of another branch, from which she managed to swing through a window and into the loft of the barn.

She slid down the ladder, which was wooden and gave her several splinters, and dashed to her pile of things, extracting clean clothing before she raced out the door and across the yard. Art snuck through the back door and hightailed it up the stairs before Snape even had time to look up. He couldn't have gotten mad at her anyway. After all, she was only going back to her room.

Art managed to strip off all her clothes and dash across the hallway and into the bathroom before anybody had time to even register that she had even been outside. By the time Snape figured out that she was not doing what he had told her to do, it was too late. Art had already barricaded herself in the bathroom and was taking a hot, soothing bath. She emerged an hour later, completely relaxed and clean. Nothing could possibly ruin her good mood.

Except Snape, who was waiting for her in her room.

"Quinn," he stated in an annoyed tone, about to reprimand her for disobeying when he suddenly realized that she wasn't wearing any clothing; it was lying on the bed behind him. He stared at her for a moment, wondering what exactly was keeping that towel up.

She fiddled nervously with a corner of it, and—finally realizing that he wasn't about to say anything—she asked timidly, "Can I get dressed before you yell at me, sir?"

He blinked and shook his head slightly to clear his thoughts. "Ah…of course…certainly." He ducked out of the room before he could say anything else.

Art furrowed her brow, wondering what had just happened. Had she actually made him nervous? Strangely, the idea did not appeal to her. It made her feel rather awkward, and she was sure he must feel the same.

As soon as she was dressed, she opened the door hesitantly and peered into the hallway. Snape was leaning against the wall, pinching the bridge of his nose and staring up at the ceiling.

"Sir, you can come in now," she stated in a soft voice.

Snape's head snapped in her direction, as though she had startled him, and it took him a moment to respond. He waited until he had gotten in the room and situated himself in the chair by Art's desk before speaking, and when he did, it was in an openly defeated tone.

"Quinn," he addressed her in a weary voice as she sat down on the bed, "You disobeyed me." He glanced toward the window, nodding briefly toward it, "I noticed your escape route."

"I was only—"

"That doesn't matter," he interrupted, raising his voice, "I don't think you quite understand the concept of a painkilling potion. It will dull pain, but it does not eliminate the cause. If you wish to feel any better by the time it wears off, then I suggest you do as I say."

Art frowned, "So I'll hurt again tomorrow?"

"Yes. But I can help you if you listen to me."

"Oh…what should I do?"

"You need to rest."

"Okay," Art nodded and stood up, heading for the door.

"Quinn! What are you doing?" Snape wondered if she was defying him on purpose, or just being stupid. What had gotten into her?

"I'm going back to the barn, so I can take a nap like you said."

He closed his eyes, rubbing his temple with a tired hand, "Quinn, stay _here_."

"Why? Where will you sleep?"

"That doesn't matter," he replied. "I want you to move as little as possible."

"Oh…okay." Art trailed back to her bed and laid down on it. She tried to sleep, but it was rather difficult for her while Snape was still in the room. However, despite Art's distraction, she managed to fall asleep before her mother came in with her soup.

Moira smiled and touched the girl's brow tenderly. Glancing at Snape, who was half-dozing over a book, she exclaimed, "Oh dear, Severus…wherever will we keep you tonight?"

Snape didn't mention the fact that he wasn't going to leave Art's side. He thought it best to mislead rather than explain. "I will take her place tonight." He looked out the window toward the barn.

Moira fell for it exactly the way he had known she would "Are you certain? I'm sure we could clean up the guest room…"

Snape shook his head, "No. That won't be necessary."

But Moira had already gotten the idea in her mind, and she brushed off his protests. "Oh, pish tosh. I'll have it ready for you in a few minutes. And of course it will only be for tonight. You have nothing to fear."

He sighed but did not argue. She came back after a small while and escorted him into the guest room. It was small, and a little cluttered with storage boxes and cabinets, but it had a bed and two windows. It seemed decently comfortable. After Moira left, he changed into his nightshirt and laid down on the bed, which really was somewhat soft. He quite nearly fell asleep waiting for everyone else to get into bed, but he forced himself up as soon as he heard the door to Sep and Moira's room—which was right next door—close.

Prowling across the hallway and back into Art's room, he stood at her bedside and watched her for quite a long time. It would have been difficult for him to describe the feeling he had as he looked at her, but it was strong enough to make him sit down beside her and contemplate getting closer. It was a strange setting to him, and he had his doubts, but something fierce and determined inside of him was not going to let Art slip away from him, no matter what he had to do.

After a very long, hesitant pause, Snape finally lifted the covers and slipped beneath them, slowly and tentatively reaching out with a hand and running it along Art's arm. He drew her nearer until his cheek rested against the top of her head, and her back curved into his chest. His knees touched her calves, and to his surprise, she moaned softly and shifted slightly, leaning further into him. But she never woke.

He felt a little intrusive, knowing that he would never be this forward if she was awake. About to kiss her cheek, he suddenly drew back and sat up. He couldn't stay next to her. Not without her knowing. But, he thought morosely, he didn't want to leave either. So, with great resignation, he slept on the floor next to Art's bed.

x…x

Art blinked and yawned exhaustedly when she woke the next morning. It had felt so good to be sleeping in her own bed again. Her backside was still sore, but not nearly as bad as it had been before, and Art was able to move. She scootched off the edge of her bed and stepped onto the cold floor.

…Except it wasn't cold, and it definitely wasn't her floor. She heard a muffled groan emanated from below, and whatever yielding surface she was standing on suddenly moved. She slipped an fell, landing right on top of Snape, who was now fully conscious and in a nasty temper.

"Quinn!" He hissed, "I am not a doormat!"

"Sorry, sir," she replied breathlessly as she pulled herself back up onto her bed. "I didn't know you were there."

"Well if you would pay attention—"

"I _do_!" She wailed pathetically, "But I couldn't see you!"

Snape didn't bother arguing. He merely stalked from the room, grabbing a clean robe on the way out. He sulked in the shower while Art moped in bed, wondering if she should get up. She finally did, but when she made her way to the kitchen, everybody else seemed too busy to acknowledge her. Art finished her chores, and decided not to go back to the house. She let the cows out into the pasture and joined them.

By the time Snape came downstairs, Art's family had started breakfast. When he entered, Moira smiled at him and offered him a chair. He declined, feeling slightly guilty when he saw that Art was not at the table. Was she upset at him?

"I'm looking for Quinn…where is she?"

Moira paused, thinking, "Well…I believe she went to do her chores."

Sep shook his head, speaking in a slow, clear tone, "She'll be done with them by now. If you ask me, she's probably out in t' field."

Snape didn't waste another moment—he left, scanning the fields for Art. He didn't see her, but he caught sight of the cows bunched up around a shallow part of the stream. Approaching, he noticed that they were not a typical matching set of cows all bought at the same time, but individuals, as different from each other as people. There was a black and white patched one, two brown shaggy beasts—one of which had been dehorned—and a furry dark roan. A motley assortment indeed, Snape thought curiously as he searched for Art. Oddly enough, she was nowhere to be found. Fed up, especially since the roan and the brown with horns kept nudging him playfully, he stalked back to the house, where he sat bad-temperedly in a chair.

"Did you find her?" Sep asked him with mild curiosity.

"She wasn't there," Snape replied darkly.

Sep frowned, thinking for a moment before asking, "Are you sure? Did you see the red-haired one?"

"I know what she looks like," He snapped.

Sep suddenly grinned and began to chuckle, "I don't think you quite understand, Severus…come with me." He stood and waited for Snape to do the same.

The professor was outraged. How dare this bumbling idiot question him? He knew what he had seen, and even if he was only half Sep's age, he had at least twice the intelligence. Stalking after the old farmer, Snape began to feel even more rankled when they reached the cows and all Sep did was smile and scratch them between the horns. The cows all appeared to like the attention, but Sep could only concentrate on so many cows, and the others tried to find consolation in Snape. He impatiently pushed their curious muzzles away, noticing with chagrin that he could not deter them, especially not the roan, which seemed to take pleasure in nibbling on the hem of his robe.

"Art," Sep suddenly spoke in a low voice, causing Snape to look up, his eyes searching for Art. She was nowhere to be seen. Who was the crazy old man talking to? "I think it's time you stop teasing the professor, Art."

Snape barely had time to register the fact that Sep was talking to the red cow before it disappeared, leaving a flustered Art in its place.

"Quinn?" He exclaimed, not even attempting to hide his shock. "You're a…an…"

Art bit her lip and looked down at her feet, which she shuffled nervously, "Yes, professor. I'm a cow...animagus."

Snape wasn't so surprised by that fact as he was curious as to how she had accomplished such a feat. He expressed such doubts. "Who would want to help you with such a difficult procedure?"

"Huh? Nobody helped me, sir. I did it on my own."

Snape raised an eyebrow, but ended his inquiries. They would continue later, when nobody else was around to witness his confusion and surprise.

_Yay! It's an extremely long chapter with tons of information crammed onto its pages! Please review!_


	13. Spring Cleaning

_Well, this is summer part II. Good luck._

"A cow? Quinn, why?"

Art looked up at Snape, who was sitting on her bed beside her, before glancing back down at her hands and wringing them in distress. She had been answering his questions for about an hour now, and she just wanted to go to bed. It was late, and Art had been through a hard day, suffering Snape's accusing calculating stares all day long.

"Well…I wanted to be a cat…but I got the hairs mixed up, I think."

"Ah…that doesn't surprise me," he replied dryly. "In fact, I'm amazed that it's the only thing you bungled up."

Art frowned. Why did Snape find it so hard to believe she could have accomplished such a difficult spell on her own? "Thank you, professor," she muttered, looking down at her knees.

He seemed to realize that he had insulted Art, and he touched her face with a hand, "Quinn…you're upset."

Art opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again and shook her head mutely. She didn't want to explain that she felt small and useless whenever she tried to have a decent conversation with him.

He seemed to figure it out for himself, however, before she could really say anything. "I am upsetting you, Quinn?"

She nodded, "I…I get the impression that you think I'm…helpless."

Snape frowned thoughtfully, "Now it's not so much that you're helpless as it is that…" he trailed off, realizing that he needed to change tactics. "Quinn," he said softly, turning her face to ward him, "Perhaps it is time for me to tell you…" he seemed to have difficulty articulating what he wanted to say.

"What?" She asked hopefully.

He closed his eyes and sighed before facing Art again, "I think…" Frustrated that he was having such a hard time communicating, he frowned and took her firmly by the shoulders. "Look, Quinn, IthinkIloveyou."

The sentence only took him about five seconds to say, considering that he spoke very quickly, but it took Art a few moments to understand and comprehend what that meant.

"But, sir…you always say I'm hopeless. How can you…it just doesn't make sense!"

"It doesn't have to," he replied in an annoyed tone. His brow furrowed and after a moment he added, "And anyway, why does it matter if you are hopeless? I don't care. Quinn," at this he took her hands in his, clenching them tightly, "You have managed something that nobody has done before…" he paused, his expression softening, "except for _her_. I have guarded myself against the very feelings you have caused me to feel, and there is _nothing_ I can do but accept it. Believe me, Quinn, I have tried."

Art wasn't sure what to think, much less what to say. She merely pulled one of her hands from his and touched his face. "So when you tease me…"

"That's all it is, Quinn," he admitted, but then he raised an eyebrow and added, "Most of the time."

She smiled nervously, "Then…I guess it's okay."

A small smirk crossed his face, "Good. Because I'm not going to stop."

Art tried to smile, but the idea still didn't appeal to her. She wanted him to praise her—just once would be enough. Sighing, she looked down at her hands and decided that she needed to go to sleep. The conversation had drained her emotionally, and her body was now following. "I have to go, Professor." She tried to stand, but Snape pulled her back down by the arm.

"You may stay here, Quinn." His voice clearly indicated that not only was he allowing her to stay, but ordering her to do so.

"Sir…I need to go to sleep."

"Then do so," he replied.

Art frowned for a moment, thinking before she removed her belt and crawled under the sheets. She didn't want to go all the way to the barn to change into her pyjamas and come all the way back. A sudden thought struck her, however, as she snuggled under the blankets with her back to Snape. She didn't turn around as she asked nervously, "Um…Professor, you aren't going to sleep on the floor again, are you?"

"No," he replied with a hint of steel in his voice.

"Then where…?"

She had actually turned her head to look at him just in time to see him removing his shoes and stockings, and before she could react, he had approached and lifted the blankets, carefully sliding beneath them and into the small depression in the bed next to Art. A sudden strange feeling overwhelmed Art and—a little frightened—she turned back around and faced the window.

A few moments later, she felt his arms enclose her and pull her toward him, and she heard him murmur into her ear, "I suppose I'll have to stay here."

She relaxed, letting herself fall into him and enjoy the sensation. He was warm and a comfortable, sturdy support and it was easy for her to drift to sleep.

x…x

Art woke to the sound of tearing paper and a stifled oath. Sitting up tiredly, she looked toward the source of the noise and caught sight of Snape, who appeared very irritated.

"Um…what are you doing, sir?" Art asked timidly as she got up.

He jumped slightly and turned, scowling at her. "Quinn…I was determining the nature of the messages Dumbledore sent me to deliver."

"Message**s**?" Art asked dubiously.

"See for yourself," He indicated the scattered papers on the desk.

Approaching, Art could see that Snape had opened the big envelope and revealed several smaller envelopes within. Each had a different name written on it. Peering closer, Art realized she could not only make out the names, but recognize them.

"Hey, these are all for my family!"

"I know," he muttered darkly. "It seems the headmaster's urgent messages were not all that urgent."

Art picked up the one with her name on it, and was about to open it when she saw another letter that had been hidden beneath hers. "Look, sir! There's even one for you!"

Lifting his top lip just enough to bare a few teeth in displeasure, Snape took the letter and opened it. His eyes scanned the paper briefly, and his mood only got darker. He threw the letter down on the desk and sat back with a growl, crossing his arms over his chest and scowling.

"What does it say?" Art asked, having still not opened her own letter.

Snape merely waved his hand in the direction of the letter, too busy glaring into the space in front of him to tell Art what it said. He had faith in her reading capabilities.

"Dear Severus…" She paused and giggled, "Hee hee, it's funny to say your first…" Art trailed off as he shifted his dark, deadly gaze upon her. She hastily turned back to the letter and continued to read.

"I trust that by now you have realized that your mission was not quite as urgent as you thought it to be. However, you must know that it is still extremely important. I have given instructions to each of the Eldriges, and it is their responsibility to see to it that you carry out yours.

"You see, Severus, I have seen how secluded you are becoming, and it has worried me for some time. So I have arranged your summer holiday for you. Septimus and Moira have both been previously informed of your arrival. Try to enjoy your time here. If you find this a difficult task to accomplish, young Artemis is there to assist you.

"Now I know that you will be displeased when you read this letter. Do not take it out on the Eldriges, Severus, as it is only your own bad temper that has made any of this necessary.

"Sincerely, Albus Dumbledore."

Art looked up from the letter, smiling broadly.

Snape gave her a disgusted look, "Don't say it, Quinn."

"I'm sorry, sir," she giggled, "but it's funny."

"No, it isn't," he disagreed soundly.

"But he knew that you wouldn't let yourself have a break over the summer so he's making you do it!"

Glowering at her, Snape muttered, "You're becoming too bold for your own good, Quinn. I believe I liked it better when you were too frightened to complete a sentence whenever you spoke to me."

"You don't think it's funny?" Art inquired softly and nervously, realizing that his bad mood was not disappearing.

"No."

"Oh…" Art looked down and realized that she hadn't read her letter yet. She did so, opening the envelope and slowly going over the contents.

"Dear Miss Eldrige, it has come to my attention that being separated from Severus may be difficult for you. I have also noticed that Severus is in need of a vacation. So I have sent him to you. I trust you will take your responsibility seriously and see to it that he enjoys himself. I have the utmost faith in your capabilities to do so, and hope that your summer will be enjoyable as well.

"With regards, Albus Dumbledore."

Art frowned, "How am I supposed to help you have fun?" She exclaimed before looking up and realizing that she'd said the wrong thing. "Oh…I mean…"

"I'm getting a drink," Snape stood and stalked from the room, leaving Art with the rest of the letters. After a moment, she figured that she should deliver them for him, since it appeared he wasn't going to do so himself.

As she came downstairs, she saw her mother in the washroom and handed her the letter. Moira opened it and smiled faintly, nodding as she read it. "I see Severus has finally figured out the reason for this…expedition of his," she remarked.

"Yeah," Art nodded, "he was pretty mad."

Moira smiled, "but that is only to be expected." She paused and frowned worriedly, "Poor boy, he did seem upset. Why didn't you follow him?"

Art's eyes widened and she hastily shook her head, "I don't think that would be a good idea, Mum."

"Oh, come now, Art. Surely you've seen how the dear boy dotes on you. He could hardly leave you alone when you were hurt."

Art frowned. How was it possible for her mother to notice things like that? It was difficult for Art to tell Snape's feelings, even when he told her about them. And she wished her mother would stop referring to him as a boy.

"Mum!" She exclaimed. "Stop it! Will you please just tell me where Dad is?"

"He's out in the field. If you're going that way, would you tell him that I finally got that stain out of his favourite shirt?"

"Fine," Art mumbled as she turned to leave.

"Art!"

Art stopped at the door, turning, "What, Mum?"

"Now this may seem an odd question, but I've noticed the way that boy calls you 'Quinn.' Why is that?"

Art shrugged and replied impatiently, "I don't know." She wanted to deliver the letters before Snape came back and realized what she was doing.

"Are you sure?" Her mother kept prying, "You know, it almost sounds like some sort of a pet name." Her eyes lit up.

Art sighed exasperatedly and left before her mother could pester her further. And Snape thought _Art_ was annoying…

x…x

The Potions Master did not return until later that evening. In fact, he was surprised he returned at all. But there was something that just drew him toward the house again. He was pretty sure it was Art. By the time he entered her room, she was lying asleep in her bed, snuggled up under the covers in a ball. She seemed slightly cold. He could not help but smile slightly.

Joining Art, he slid nearer and carefully put his arms around her and rested his head in the crook of her neck. He noticed that not long after he did this, she uncurled and leaned into him, sighing softly. It was difficult to remain angry at her, especially when she was so vulnerable. So he merely kissed her on the temple, closed his eyes, and slept.

x…x

Art was the first one to wake the next morning, but she had difficulty getting up, considering that she was lying in Snape's arms, and he had shifted and thrown one of his legs over hers. It was comfortable—not to mention the fact that she was trapped—so Art waited, hoping he would wake soon.

After a few moments, Art realized that she couldn't wait that long. She had chores to do. "Sir…" she whispered.

He did not stir.

"Sir…" It was slightly louder this time.

He still did not move.

She nudged him gently and was about to speak again when his eyes suddenly opened, gazing at her with calm contemplation.

"What?"

"Um…sir…can you get up? I have to do my chores."

It took him a moment to respond, but eventually he unwound himself from around her and let her get up. He propped himself up lazily on an elbow, watching as Art dashed across the room, got dressed, and then clambered over him and slid out the window. She made it to the barn and managed to do most of her chores without anybody noticing that she had accidentally slept in and had not been in the barn on time.

Needless to say, however, she was late to breakfast, and she still hadn't finished mucking out the byre. As she sat at the table and tried to catch her breath as she reached for a pancake, Art suddenly felt a steady gaze upon her. She looked up and met her mother's eyes.

"Art, you're filthy!" Moira stared at Art's hands, which she hadn't been able to wash thoroughly and therefore still had dirt caked under her fingernails.

"Sorry, mum. I haven't finished my chores yet," she muttered.

"That's no excuse, Artemis Quinn Eldrige. You leave piles of things all over the house, you track mud and dirt onto my floors, and don't clean up after yourself. I am tired of seeing messes everywhere you go!"

Justine snickered as Art slid abashedly down in her chair, but Moira only whirled her gaze onto the others.

"Art isn't the only culprit in this house, young lady," she glowered at Justine, who immediately stopped laughing with a tiny hiccup. Moira suddenly stood up, "You know, I think it's time I did a little cleaning around here. Anybody who isn't out of the house in three seconds is going to be my cleaning slave today, so I suggest you all leave."

Three seconds later the kitchen was completely empty.

Outside in the yard, Snape turned to Art, surprise lacing his voice, "That was…surprising."

Art shrugged, "Not really. She likes to rant like that sometimes."

"This happens often?"

"Yeah," Art explained as they slowly trailed toward the barn. "About once a month. Don't worry; she'll have gotten over it by lunchtime."

"And until then?" He inquired, looking distastefully around him as they entered the barn.

"Make yourself at home," Art waved a hand at the interior of the building. There was hay everywhere. If it wasn't stacked in bales near the back, it was piled up in huge mounds, or scattered knee-deep in the stalls. Fortunately the cows had already been put out to pasture, although their scent still lingered.

It did not take Art long to finish mucking out the stalls, and she left for a few moments to wash her hands under the spigot outside. When she came back in, Snape still hadn't found an inviting place to sit down, and it didn't really look like he was trying to find one anyway. Art realized she would have to take the initiative.

She gently took him by the arm and led him up into the loft, sitting down in one of the tall piles of straw up there. Snape grudgingly followed suit and sat next to her.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered, "what are we supposed to do for the next three hours?"

Art shrugged, "I dunno. But I'd rather be bored here than go help my mother clean."

Snape couldn't disagree with her.

After a moment, he looked down at Art's hand, which was still resting on his forearm. He touched it with the tips of his fingers, noticing that she jumped a little when he did so. Lacing his fingers through hers, he ran his thumb over her skin and looked up at her.

"Quinn…" He leaned in to kiss her, running his free hand up her arm and taking her shoulder.

Art fell backward into the hay, and Snape, who was unwilling to let go, followed. Art liked the close feeling, and the fact that he kept kissing her. She pressed her hand against his chest, which was heaving with every breath he took. He dropped her hand and put both of his on her waist, pushing her shirt up a little. Art wasn't sure she liked that idea, and she took both his arms by the wrist, looking him in the face. "Sir, I…" She paused, distracted by something on his arm. His sleeve has slid up to the elbow, baring a strange, dark symbol on the inside of his forearm.

"What's that?" She reached out to touch it, but he pulled it away.

"Nothing," Snape murmured, drawing his sleeve back down over it.

Art realized that she would get no further by asking him. He wasn't going to tell her what it was. "Oh…"

He seemed to want to forget about it, and he began to get up, but Art stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

"Wait! Don't leave."

He contemplated her for a moment before returning to his original position above her, placing an arm on either side of her. "What?"

Art touched his face. "I don't want you to go yet."

Satisfied that she wasn't going to ask him any more questions, he resumed his previous agenda, which Art didn't seem to have a problem with.

"Art?"

Both Art and Snape jumped and sat up at the sound of the voice behind them. Septimus stood on the ladder that led up to the loft, his head barely poking up above the slats of wood.

"Dad?" She exclaimed in horror, suddenly trying to pull her shirt down.

"What are you doing up here? You know I don't have a problem with you and your friends playing in the barn, but how many times to I have to warn you to be careful when you're in the loft? If you fell off you could break a leg!"

"Surely, sir, you don't think that we haven't already considered the possibility and have positioned ourselves with ample space from the edge," Snape countered, nonplussed at the idea of being caught in such a vulnerable position.

Fortunately Sep didn't seem to notice what they had been doing...or understand what Snape had just said. He frowned slightly at the floor, as if measuring the distance between them and the edge, but he finally said slowly, "Well, I trust that you can be safe, Art. Just be careful." Art nodded, and Septimus made his way back down the ladder.

She looked at Snape, her eyes still wide. "That was close."

He scowled, "I don't even think the man knew what we were doing. He's denser than a brick."

Art would have felt insulted by that comment if she didn't already know it was true. Fortunately Septimus couldn't hear them from below as he made his way around the barn. He seemed to find whatever he was looking for, because he left soon afterwards. Snape and Art still didn't take any chances. They found something else to entertain themselves until lunch.

_Well, there it is. Please review. We appreciate (and like) you so much more when you review. Yay!_


	14. Back to School

_Well, here's the next chapter. Hope you like it! If you do, please review so we know that you liked it!_

Snape hated fishing. The very idea that people would actually catch the slimy, wriggling, pathetically gasping creatures for recreational purposes was simply revolting. Why, then, was he dangling a line into the water and hopelessly trying to hook a fish? Surely he had better things to do! Not to mention that Quinn, who had actually convinced him to come along, had already caught four fair-sized trout. It had even gotten to the point that he was actually beginning to be annoyed, especially considering the fact that the only things he had caught were a clump of weeds and an old boot.

Finally, after reeling in an old tin can, he threw down the pole and turned to Art. "This is ridiculous."

Art dropped her pole as well, trying to follow Snape as he trudged back toward the house. "Um, sir…where are you going?"

"Inside. I have better things to do."

"But fishing is fun! You just have to be patient. And Dumbledore said—"

Snape cut her off, whirling around and glaring at her, "Summer is nearly over, Quinn. I've been here for eight weeks now. It's time I prepare for classes again."

"Already?" Art halted, frowning sadly.

"Yes. The new term begins in two weeks, and I assure you Dumbledore probably has plans for a staff meeting soon. You'd best prepare for that," he added as an afterthought.

"Prep…prepare?" Art asked incredulously, trying to catch up to Snape again as he stalked farther away. Unfortunately, he would not grace her with any more information. However, his flared temper seemed to die down by dinner, and he even allowed Art into her room, gazing absently in her direction as she clambered into bed and snuggled under the sheets.

"I will be leaving in the morning, Quinn," he stated softly as he joined her beneath the covers.

They both lay on their backs, staring at the ceiling as Art replied, "Oh…" After a short pause, she asked timidly, "Did you like…staying here?"

Snape sat up and looked at her. Finally he answered, "Yes, Quinn. I…enjoyed it."

She smiled, "That's good," and fell asleep, unable to keep her eyes open any longer.

He lay back down beside her, leaning on an elbow and watching her. "Quinn…" he smiled thinly, staring at her face. She was too soft—too innocent. Was he really going to taint her with his poisoned past? Sooner or later she would find out, despite his attempts to mask his dark history. Surely he had sufficiently guarded his heart against such soft emotions, hadn't he? Apparently not.

Touching Art's face with the ends of his fingertips, Snape let out his breath in a silent sigh. She leaned into his hand, mumbling something in her sleep, and Snape suddenly realized that he had no choice in the matter anymore. She had attached herself to him, and nothing in the world would force him to put her through the awful torment of rejection. He knew how agonizing that felt all too well. And besides, he thought with a wry sort of smile, he was beginning to grow attached to her himself…

x...x

Art woke early the next morning, hoping to catch Snape before he left. Feeling warm weight behind her, Art smiled and rolled over, snuggling closer, her eyes still tightly closed.

"It's too early for you to leave, sir," Art mumbled, clinging to the warmth.

She felt warm breath against her face and leaned nearer for a kiss. Art had never known Snape to be so friendly in the morning. She liked it.

Something damp and cold suddenly began snuffling her face, and she felt a heavy weight land on her chest. Was he sniffing—"Herbert!" She shrieked, falling backward off her bed. Hearing a muffled noise behind her, Art turned to see Justine on the floor, clutching her sides as she giggled uncontrollably.

"You must have had a lot of fun with the professor last night, Art…" Justine snickered as Herbert clambered down from the bed and started sniffing Art some more. He licked her face a few times for good measure while she was still in shock, causing Justine to burst into another laughing fit.

"Justine!" Art finally exclaimed. "What did you let Herbert in here for?"

It took Justine a few moments to answer, and when she did, it was frequently interrupted by giggles. "Your boyfriend…heehee…left earlier this morning. Herbert—haha—heard the door open and he came scratching at my door…heehee—he wanted me to let him in your room so I…bwahaha…did."

Art frowned, "Thanks." She stood up and went to her dresser when Dumbledore's letter caught her eye. Whirling, she stared at her sister, "Wait—Professor Snape left?"

Justine shrugged, "Yeah, I heard him leave. He just walked out the back door and vanished."

"Vanished?" Art repeated, a lump forming in her throat.

"Yeah. I saw it out my window," Justine replied casually. She patted her knees and called Herbert to her, scratching the shaggy dog behind his ears. "Come on Herbert," she muttered. "Breakfast time!"

Justine made it to the door before remembering something and turning to Art. "Oh, and this is for you. I found it on the kitchen table. Hey, maybe it's a letter from _him_!" She scurried from the room, laughing again.

Art stared at the envelope Justine had left her with. It was addressed to her in a spider scrawl that she was beginning to recognize rather well.

_Dear Artemis,_

_I am pleased to inform you that the new school year will be beginning on September 1__st__. There will be a staff meeting held a week prior in the Great Hall at 3:00. Please arrive beforehand so that you may get settled in. Hoping your holiday was well—_

—_Albus Dumbledore _

A week? Art began worrying frantically. She only had a week to prepare? She would have to tell her family, pack her things, and most importantly find a way to get there. She had no idea where Hogwarts was, and she was sure the Hogwarts Express didn't make an early run for staff members. How was she supposed to get there in time?

Her parents didn't seem troubled at all when she came rushing downstairs to tell them the news, but then again, they were never really surprised by anything.

"Ah, Hogwarts. I miss it sometimes," her father smiled softly, a reminiscent glow in his eyes.

"Yes, I really do envy you a little, Artemis," Moira stated as she toasted a piece of bread for Art.

"But how do I get there?"

"Oh, it's not hard, sweetie," her mother smiled warmly. "We can just disapparate you to Hogsmeade and you can walk to the castle from there."

"Disapparate?" Art remembered disapparating and how much she disliked it.

Her parents didn't hear her, Sep turning to Moira with a grin, "You remember Honeydukes?"

Moira laughed, "Oh yes. And the Three Broomsticks. That's where you proposed. Remember?"

"Their butterbeer was always the best…" Sep smiled dazedly.

Art stumbled from the kitchen, her head reeling. She sat on the stairs, barely noticing when Herbert shuffled up and laid at her feet. How had she not known that her parents could disapparate? She felt lonely and left out, as if her parents had kept a secret from her that everybody else knew.

Art's reverie was broken when Sep strolled through the doorway. "Well Art, it's settled. We're going to Hogsmeade on Friday. We can spend the weekend with you before you have to go to that staff meetin' of yours."

Art frowned," But…but the cows…and Herbert—"

"Oh, the Wrights next door will watch them for a few days." He shrugged the question off. "The important thing is that we get to spend some quality time as a family before you leave."

Still worried, Art tried to find an excuse not to go. She didn't want to leave home yet. Nothing came to mind—she honestly was going back to Hogwarts in a few days. Had summer really ended so quickly?

x...x

"Ah, Hogsmeade," Sep inhaled deeply and sighed, "A myriad of fascinating places to generations of Hogwarts students."

Art cast her father a wary glance. He seemed extraordinarily happy to be returning—if only for a few days—to the school he had spent most of his adolescence at. Moira too seemed thrilled to be strolling down the street, glancing in shop windows and reminiscing with Sep. Only Justine seemed as overwhelmed as Art, but for completely different reasons.

"I didn't know there could be so many weir…er—wizards in one place," she gazed around with wide eyes.

Art nodded, "Yeah." She could barely speak, and she kept casting nervous glances up the hill toward the towers of the castle that peeked up over the ridge. She wasn't ready to go back. Especially not to Snape's lessons. She still hadn't told her parents about those and how much they scared her. She felt as if they had progressed so much over the summer, and she didn't want to risk wasting all that. Art wasn't quite sure what further lessons with Snape would entail. She highly doubted he'd be a more forgiving teacher, no matter how much he liked her. He was very good at the…unexpected.

As Moira checked into the inn, Sep noticed that Art was paler and more subdued than normal. He clapped her on the shoulder, making her jump, and exclaimed, "Art! You don't look well. Still don't have the stomach for disapparating? I know just he stuff to help you. Come on, Justine, you'd better have some too."

Art barely paid attention as Sep led them across the street and into the Three Broomsticks. They sat at a small round table and Sep ordered three pints of butterbeer, asking if he could get one spiked with rum. Art had heard of butterbeer a few times before, and she was mildly curious as to how it tasted. Their server plunked three glasses filled with amber liquid down onto the table and smiled at them.

Smelling it, Art warily eyed her glass, watching as Sep downed his in one gulp. She glanced nervously at Justine, who seemed just as worried. They both timidly sipped at the foamy liquid. It was immediately apparent that Justine liked the rich warm drink as it trickled down her throat, spreading its warmth through her veins. The slight chill in the Autumn air seemed to vanish immediately, and she turned to Art to see how her sister liked it.

Sep meanwhile, frowned, smacking his lips. "Hmm…that's not normally what my butterrum tastes like…" He suddenly seemed to realize something, and he swiftly looked at Art.

Art, facedown on the table and completely unconscious, also liked the butterbeer, but was unable to tell anyone because of her complete lack of tolerance to the rum that laced it. She remained asleep for a full half hour after Sep carted her back to the inn over his shoulder, and was only semiconscious for the rest of the day and into the evening. On the bright side, however, her worries seemed triveial when she thought about them, and her mood was immensely improved. She giggled at everything anybody said, although her smile waned a bit when Moira suggested she go to bed.

"But moth…er…" she enunciated with great care, "I'm not sleep…y." Art stood up as if to prove her point and immediately became subject to the impenetrable forces of gravity. She fell down and was sent straight to bed.

x...x

Art spent most of the next day in bed, moaning about her headache. It went away by midday, but she still didn't leave the room, letting her parents show the wonders of Hogsmeade to Justine while she stayed inside and tried to read Dumbledore's book of simple spells. She finally felt like she understood how to defeat a boggart when her family returned and her mother promptly informed her that it was ten o'clock and that she should go to bed. So Art slept.

Dreaming about boggarts that turned into Snape and told her that he was going to have to fail her and not give her lessons because he disliked cows, Art tossed and turned, finally waking up well before dawn. She decided to go downstairs and eat something as she thought about what to do with her last day of freedom. She would obviously have to go to Hogwarts later that afternoon if she wanted to get settled in before nightfall so that she could get a decent night's rest for the staff meeting. Part of her was anxious to return to the school, and she almost looked forward to seeing Mrs. Norris again, despite the fact that she still had scars on her wrist from trying to bathe the temperamental cat.

Justine soon joined Art and informed her of all the neat things she had missed on the previous day's tour of Hogsmeade. Art listened half-heartedly, most of her mind on Hogwarts and the beginning of the term. She knew that once the term began and she was settled in everything would be fine, but Art still didn't like the idea of returning and getting everything sorted out.

Finally, Justine realized that talking to Art wasn't doing any good, so she dragged her sister out into the street and showed Art every interesting thing she could remember. Art's tour ended at the Shrieking Shack, which—like every other purportedly haunted house during daytime hours—just sat in a dilapidated state and looked creepy. Art soon got bored of watching the house sit there and she trailed back down the path to the inn, wondering if she could make herself go back to sleep.

Noticing Art's morose mood, Justine tried to figure out the problem. "What's wrong, Art? Are you nervous?"

"Nervous?" Art gulped, trying to ignore the lump of dread in her stomach. "Why do you ask?"

"You're acting…sort of weird…I mean, more than normal."

Art glanced at her sister as they returned to the inn, finally sighing, "I'm just…a little worried. That's all." She didn't want to explain the fact that she had forgotten most of the spells Snape had taught her last year and that she was worried he might hate her for that. It hurt just to think about it.

She caught sight of an empty table and sat at it, wondering if she should try to eat before she left for Hogwarts. Justine sat beside her and was about to suggest that she try the veal when a shadow fell over the both of them. Art glanced up into the face of a very tall, pale man with short silvery hair and glittering iron-grey eyes.

"Excuse me, but is this seat taken?" He asked in a resonant voice.

"Er—no," Art replied timidly, wondering why he had chosen to sit at their half-empty table instead of someone else's. Glancing quickly around, she realized that there were none and that she was stuck in the company of this stranger. Sighing, she decided to order a drink, considering that it would be rude to just leave.

"So…" the man said casually as he unfastened the long cloak from around his shoulders and draped it over his chair. "What brings you to Hogsmeade? A family outing?" He glanced at Justine as he said this.

"Um…actually, I'm just here for the day…I work at the school up the hill." Art smiled nervously at the barmaid as she left a drink on the table.

"Oh really?" He seemed intrigued by the news. However, he said nothing more on the subject, suddenly realizing that he had not introduced himself. "Please, forgive me," he stated quickly, smiling warmly and showing a set of very white teeth, "I am Vaughan Maelstrom. And you are?"

"I'm Art," she replied hesitantly, pointing to Justine and adding, "This is my sister, Justine."

"Well it is a pleasure to meet you both," his smile broadened just a bit.

Art felt a little uneasy. She wasn't sure she liked this friendly man. Of course, she didn't like strangers anyway, so she always felt uneasy around them.

Fortunately she was saved from further conversation by her parents, who came striding into the room. "Art, dear, you're going to be late if you don't finish your packing now and hurry to Hogwarts."

Art leapt up at the reminder of work, suddenly in a panic. "I have to go now," she apologized to the man as she stood and backed away.

He merely stood and inclined his head, "Perhaps we will have the pleasure of speaking again at another time."

Art nodded and turned to go upstairs. In her hurry to leave, she tripped over a loose board and landed with a painful thump on her face. "Augh—" she groaned and sat up, holding her nose, which was bleeding profusely.

Several interested bystanders crowded around her, especially her parents, who immediately tried to assess the damage. Art noticed offhandedly that the man she had just been sitting with was now nowhere to be seen. Why had he left in such a hurry?

"Ouch!" Art exclaimed when Moira touched her nose.

"Oh, dear. Art, sweetie, I think it's broken."

"What?"

"Don't worry," Sep reassured her. "Fortunately we can take you to Madame Pomfrey. She's a very skilled healer. She can put you right in no time."

Art groaned. Her last weekend of fun had gone just swimmingly. First she had accidentally ingested her father's rum, spent a whole day with a hangover, met a stranger who disappeared conveniently when trouble occurred, and—to top it all off—she had broken her nose. She couldn't help but mumble in a sarcastic voice, "What a great way to start the new term."

x...x

"Well I'm not surprised to see you here," Madame Pomfrey greeted Art matter-of-factly. "What's the trouble this time?"

Art hesitantly removed her hands from around her nose, which had finally stopped bleeding and was now turning an interesting shade of purple.

"Dear me, it's broken, isn't it…" Madame Pomfrey herded Art to a bed, sitting her down and carefully examining Art's face. "Well it doesn't look too bad. I'll have it mended in less than an hour." She made her way to her storeroom, disappearing for a few minutes.

Sitting beside Art, Sep smiled reassuringly at her before patting his knees and standing again. He seemed anxious to leave.

"Well you're in good hands now, Art, so we'd better go before we get in the way."

Art grimaced, trying unsuccessfully to smile. "Well…'bye then…I guess." She barely noticed when Moira embraced her tightly or when Justine said goodbye in a soft voice. It was difficult for her not to take notice, however, when Sep tweaked her nose like he usually did when he wished her good luck.

"Ow!" Art whimpered, holding her nose.

"Ooh, I forgot, Art. Sorry," her father apologized hastily, his face turning red under Moira's glaring eye.

"It's time to go now," Moira ushered Sep and Justine from the room, glancing back at Art with a fleeting smile before they disappeared.

Art nursed her wound in silence, trying to hold in the tears welling in her eyes. She couldn't tell if it was because she missed her family or because of the pain, but it was difficult to keep from crying. Why couldn't Madame Pomfrey hurry up?

She waited for a few more minutes before the matronly witch returned, her wand in one hand and a small vial in the other.

"Alright," she popped the stopper out of the vial and handed it to Art, "Take this for the pain and lie down."

Art downed the potion, remembering Snape's bitter painkilling draught. This one, however, was completely different, tasting rather pleasant, like peppermint almost. Her surprise must have shown on her face, because Madame Pomfrey inquired, "What is it? Does the potion taste odd?"

Art shook her head, "No, it's fine. I just didn't know it could taste so…good."

Madame Pomfrey smiled, obviously flattered. "Yes, it's a recipe of my own. Severus brewed the original potion, but I added a few ingredients to hide that horrid flavour." She chuckled, "Of course, he was furious when he found out about it. Really, though, I don't see why he has such a problem with it. Does he honestly think that students would drink such an abhorrent thing?"

Art couldn't help but giggle slightly, sniffing painfully. It all made sense to her now. She could just imagine Snape's outrage that someone might actually alter his potion in an attempt to make it better. She wished that she could be more like Madame Pomfrey and have the courage to stand up to him. Then again, Art nervously recalled that the nurse was one of Snape's peers, and Art—as Filch's assistant—had no right to vie with his authority.

"Alright, dear," Madame Pomfrey stated as Art lay on her back, "This is going to hurt for a minute, but it'll go away soon."

Art closed her eyes tightly, wincing as Madame Pomfrey tapped her painful nose with the end of her wand. She gritted her teeth, feeling the bone shifting back into place, coming together with a soft click.

"There," she heard Madame Pomfrey state after a few moments. "That should do it. There is still some bruising in the area, but I'm sure it won't hurt nearly as much now. Still, I'd like you to stay here for another hour or so until the potion starts to wear off."

Art nodded, "Okay." She gingerly reached up to touch her nose, realizing that indeed it did feel better. She stood up, wanting to leave now that she was healed, and she approached the woman cautiously. "I'm feeling loads better…can I—?"

"No. Sit," she replied firmly before Art could even finish.

Pouting, Art made her way back to the bed and sat down with a slight bounce. There were so many other things she could be doing. Her self-pitying thoughts were interrupted, however, when the door to the infirmary opened again and—to Art's extreme chagrin—Professor Snape strolled through it. Fortunately he did not look her way, striding swiftly past her bed and toward Madame Pomfrey, who was cleaning out a cupboard of spare sheets and blankets.

"Yes, Severus?" She asked with barely a glance in his direction. It was almost as though she could sense his morose aura when he entered the room.

"The headmaster sent me to retrieve a list of potions you need to replenish your stores," he illuminated in a bored voice.

"Oh, yes, of course. I'll have that right out for you," Madame Pomfrey disappeared into her office.

Art, meanwhile, shrunk down on her bed, pulling the blanket up over her and hiding behind it.

"Quinn," Snape suddenly stated, not even looking at her. "I should have known you'd be here."

"How—how did you know I was here?" Art asked nervously, lowering the blanket. As far as she knew, Snape hadn't even seen her.

"A lucky guess," he replied sarcastically.

Amazed, Art responded, "Really?"

Finally he turned to look at her, disbelief lacing his tone, "No, Quinn. I saw your family leaving. It wasn't a difficult puzzle to solve."

"Oh," Art mumbled.

Narrowing his eyes, Snape began to approach, asking, "What are you here for anyway?"

Art hesitated for a moment, just long enough for Madame Pomfrey to emerge and interrupt, "Here is the list, Severus. Be sure to make ten doses of that pepper-up potion, and don't forget to add the peppermint oil to your painkilling tonic."

Snape grimaced, but did not say anything, merely taking the list and stuffing it in a pocket before he left, casting Art one last intrigued look as he exited the room.

x...x

"Good afternoon," Dumbledore greeted his staff warmly as they sat down at the head table in the Great Hall. "I hope you all had a pleasant summer holiday," he beamed around the table, lingering particularly on Snape, who scoffed and scowled back.

Art, squashed between Hagrid and Snape, scooted farther from the irritated man, not caring that her face was now practically buried in Hagrid's furry overcoat.

"Hi, Hagrid," she greeted his elbow in a muffled voice.

"Well hullo, Art!" Hagrid boomed, earning many reproachful stares from teachers around the table. Snape seemed to be the only one who noticed the reason for Hagrid's outburst, and he glared at Art, silently warning her to be quiet and pay attention.

She did so, glancing around the room boredly when she caught sight of a familiar silvery head of hair and heard Dumbledore announce, "Professor Sinistra, as you all know, has taken leave this year, and it is my great pleasure to welcome Vaughan Maelstrom to the temporary post as Astronomy professor."

Art let out a squeak of surprise, especially when his steely eyes met hers and a faint smile curled around his lips. She received another dark glare from Snape.

Nervously Art lowered her gaze and sat demurely in her chair, determined to be the model of silence. That is, at least until Hagrid produced a deck of cards that looked tiny in his humongous hands. Art smiled when he scrawled a note to her in her notebook.

_Know how to play village squib?_

Art nodded, glad that her parents had at least taught her that game, although they preferred to call it 'village muggle' so they wouldn't offend Justine. Hagrid dealt the cards out while everybody else either boredly watched Dumbledore as he spoke about the upcoming year, or scribbling down notes on how to improve their classes. Art noticed that Flitwick and Sprout were passing a notebook between each other, and that McGonagall was whispering something to Snape and glancing at her. She distinctly heard the words "what…you do…her nose?"

Snape glowered first at McGonagall and then at Art, shaking his head vehemently, obviously not happy about being blamed for Art's mishap. Fortunately he was too involved at being angry with her to notice that Hagrid had finished dealing the cards and was beginning toe game.

Unable to multitask, Art soon lost all focus on the meeting and became completely involved in the game. When, to her complete surprise, Art put her last card on the table, she cried with glee and announced to Hagrid's elbow, "HaHA! You're the village squib!"

An outraged voice came from the other side of the table, "No I'm not!"

Silence followed as every head at the table turned first toward Filch then to Art, whose face turned as beet red as her hair. Snape wasn't even trying to save his dignity, his head buried in his hands, his elbows resting heavily on the table. Hagrid merely beamed and congratulated Art, "Good game, Art." He patted her on the back with so much force that she slipped off her chair and disappeared under the table.

At that moment, Dumbledore decided it was time to close the meeting.

As teachers began to gather their things and leave, the headmaster glanced around the table and called, "Severus! May I speak with you and Artemis for a brief moment?"

Suddenly filled with dread, Art emerged from under the table, bumping her head on the corner as she stood up. Trailing behind Snape, Art nervously peered around him at the headmaster.

"Yes, headmaster?" He asked in a monotone voice.

"I have been thinking about your lessons with Artemis, and—"

"Sir, regarding these lessons," Snape interrupted quickly. "I don't believe it is advisable for me to continue teaching her, considering certain…ah, circumstances you may or may not be aware of."

Art's usually gloomy mood at the mention of Snape's lessons received a jolt of hope. Lessons with another teacher?

"Ah, Severus," Dumbledore smiled and shook his head. "My decision remains the same. You will continue your lessons with Artemis as scheduled on Tuesdays and Thursdays."

"What?" Art burst out, eliciting a glare from Snape. She covered her mouth, her eyes wide with shock. How did the headmaster expect her to survive _two_ days a week with Snape? Especially when one considered their current, confusing situation.

"Headmaster, surely it would be inappropriate—"

"Nonsense," Dumbledore interrupted Snape. "I'm sure it will be a very productive arrangement. Now," he stood up, "If you'll excuse me, I must replenish my stock of lemon drops. I'm afraid I'm running a bit low."

Art glanced nervously at Snape as the headmaster left. The black-haired man looked very put out. Art didn't feel so good either.

"Well…um, I have to go—"

Snape whirled on her and caught her by the collar, dragging her nearer and growling threateningly in her face, "This does not change anything, Quinn. You had better practice and you had better do well, or I will not teach you and you will be _very_ sorry."

Art nodded vehemently, "Ok…" she whimpered.

Grimacing, Snape dropped his grip on her and strode from the room. Art suddenly found herself quite alone in the gigantic hall, grey clouds hanging from the enchanted ceiling and low over her head.

Making her way from the room, Art was surprised when she bumped into the silver-haired man from Hogsmeade.

"Professor Maelstrom…I'm sorry," Art apologized hurriedly.

The man smiled, "It's alright. I just wanted to know if you were alright after that…incident in the inn."

"Oh…yes, I'm fine," Art mumbled, feeling her nose gingerly. It was still a little sore.

"I assume you are going to finish unpacking your things now?" He asked conversationally, easily keeping pace with her as she made her way toward her room.

"Yes…I've got to do that before I help Filch with the cleaning before school starts."

"Well I'm sure that will be most entertaining," the man smiled at her and stopped, inclining his head. "Perhaps you will find time to tell me about it when everything dies down. However, I must be preparing my lessons now, so if you'll excuse me…" he bowed to Art and left.

She frowned curiously at his retreating back. He seemed somehow odd in his careful, dignified manner. Shrugging, she found the door to her room and entered, immediately unpacking and making herself at home. It was surprising how much she had actually missed it over the summer. But this time she had brought several more books and other odds and ends to make her room more like her own. By the time she had everything where she wanted it, it was quite dark outside and too late to do any cleaning, so Art settled for reading a chapter out of one of her favourite books and then getting into her pyjamas and going to bed. She was exhausted.

Just as she had reached the semiconscious state that came before sleep, however, the door opened and a rather irritated Snape stood in the doorway, dressed only in his grey nightshirt.

"Come with me, Quinn," he stated shortly.

Art frowned; his dilemma must be urgent if he had come all the way up to her room in his pyjamas. She blinked and sat up, reaching for her wand.

"You won't need that," he snapped.

She stood and made her way toward the door, reaching for her bucket of cleaning supplies.

"You don't need that either."

"What do you need _me_ for then?" Art whined. She wanted to return to her bed.

"Follow me," he replied grumpily and with little patience.

Art did so nervously, her curiosity growing as they entered his office and went from there into the back set of rooms that served as his personal chambers. She remembered only being there once, and it had been a rather confusing experience. Why had Snape brought her back to these dark, gloomy rooms?

She watched as Snape prowled straight to the black draped bed and slid under the covers, lying back with a soft groan. After a moment, he opened one eye and looked at Art. "I thought you were tired."

"I am," she replied, confused. "Can I go back to bed, or did you want me to tuck you in?" The question was not meant in a sarcastic way, but Snape still glared at her.

"Quinn, you either come here now, or I'll mail you home in a matchbox."

"Oh," Art suddenly realized what he wanted. She hurriedly clambered onto the other side of his bed and snuggled under the covers, closing her eyes as he wrapped his arms around her waist. "Why didn't you just ask me to join you?" She questioned in a slightly annoyed tone.

"I didn't believe it was necessary," he replied darkly into her ear.

She cowed under his black gaze and fell silent. Fortunately, she was tired enough that sleep came fairly quickly and she didn't have to worry about making polite conversation with Snape anymore. Sighing, she realized the term was not starting well at all.

x...x

"Quinn."

Art jumped awake, exclaiming, "The cows escaped!" She was swiftly muted with an arm around her waist and a hand over her mouth. It took her a second to realize that she wasn't at home but at Hogwarts, in the dungeons, and—most importantly—the cows were not escaping.

"Are you awake?" A voice hissed into her ear from behind her.

Art nodded, taking a deep breath as Snape let her go.

"What time is it?" She asked blearily, looking around the dark room.

"Five," he muttered. "You had better go back to your room before anybody notices you aren't there."

"Oh." Art didn't like the idea of pulling herself away from the warmth and traipsing all the way back to her room on the second floor, especially not so early in the morning.

Yawning, she slowly slid from under the blankets, shivering as her feet touched the cold stone floor. She glanced back jealously at Snape, who had returned to a prone position and had closed his eyes again. Tiptoeing out the door, Art made her way quickly to her room where she huddled under the covers until a decent time when Filch came in to wake her. Sighing, Art realized sadly that sleep would definitely not be high on her to-do list. She already missed summer.

_Well, tell us what you think! We're dying for reviews! They're what keep us writing! ...well, partly that and our love of Harry Potter...and Snape...I guess... --OneCrazyGirl (and OtherCrazyGirl)_


	15. Cunning

_Hey, all you wonderful readers. So sorry for the long long wait, but you all know how exams are. Besides, this was a very difficult chapter to write. Hope you enjoy!_

Snape was very put out at Dumbledore, and this time he was determined to let the headmaster know. He had just been summoned to the headmaster's office, most likely to report how his summer had been. Snape would not let this opportunity go to waste; he was going to tell that old codger exactly what he thought about his 'errands.'

Pacing his floor, Snape carefully thought out his argument, crafting each phrase with rapt attention to detail. First he would describe the menial tasks he had been forced to partake in, including mucking the barn out and fishing. Then he would make sure to mention Dumbledore's underhanded attempt at trying to make him have 'fun.' This also included his frustration at having to deal with such ignorant people. He would 'forget' to mention the short, pleasing interludes spent alone with Quinn, just so he could focus his argument on his utterly dull holiday. Smiling grimly, Snape decided that he was ready to face Dumbledore and made his way to the headmaster's office.

Finally coming to the top of the stairs and facing the door, Snape squared his shoulders. He was not going to let the old man get the better of him. Not this time.

"Come in," Dumbledore's pleasant voice called as he knocked.

Snape entered, a dark look on his face.

"So, Severus, how was your holiday?" His voice was soft and warm, and his eyes twinkled behind his half-moon spectacles as he folded his hands casually on the desk.

Snape opened his mouth, several phrases coming to mind as he tried to begin his well-rehearsed speech. There was a tense moment of silence before he seemed to lose all control.

"SHE'S A COW!" He exclaimed.

Dumbledore blinked before cocking his head to one side and replying in a friendly, but admonishing tone, "Now, Severus, that isn't a kind thing to say about Miss Eldrige, especially after she so kindly lent her home to you."

Snape's face blanched and his voice became deadly quiet. "If I had known beforehand—"

"Ah, but there's no sense in changing the past, is there?" Dumbledore smiled up at him, "Did everything go well?"

Snape glowered at Dumbledore before replying reluctantly, "Perhaps." He didn't like reporting to the headmaster.

"Surely there is something memorable you would like to tell me about?" Dumbledore prodded him on.

His black eyes narrowed briefly before his face went blank and he replied in an impartial voice, "Quinn is a cow. If you will excuse me now, I must leave and continue to come to terms with this small piece of information. Good day."

Stalking from the room, Snape had the distinct impression that if he had turned around, he would have seen Dumbledore laughing at him.

x…x

Snape didn't like being kind. He disliked showing any emotion contrary to the unwelcoming, sarcastic personality he had developed over several years of practice. Why then, he wondered, was he prowling into Quinn's room and placing a neatly wrapped parcel on her bedside table? It was her birthday tomorrow, but that didn't matter to him. Twenty-two wasn't a special age, and it wasn't as if she had not already received other gifts. In fact, as Snape carefully put his present on the table, he noticed a small package from Dumbledore and a notecard from Filch. They must have sent the house-elves to leave their gifts with Art.

He glanced at the girl, lying sound asleep in her bed. It was very late and she had been through a tiring day of helping Filch oversee the cleaning of the dormitories. Touching her forehead lightly with the ends of his fingers, Snape smiled ever so slightly. She deserved a gift, he thought. Taking another look at his present for her, he suddenly frowned and picked it up, peering at the tag. He furrowed his brow and after a moment of thought, Snape ripped the tiny piece of paper off and stuffed it into his pocket. Art could guess who it was from without reading an awkward note from him. Grimacing, he took one last look at Art and left.

x…x

Art woke up feeling slightly more optimistic than normal about her day. She was, after all, a year older. Maybe somebody had actually remembered this time! Rolling out of bed, Art suddenly noticed a small collection of presents on her bedside table.

One, left by Dumbledore, was a notebook filled with parchment accompanied by quills that wrote in different colours according to her mood. Art was distracted for several minutes by this until another present caught her eye. Carefully opening the package, Art pulled out a small vial filled with a shiny, golden substance that sparkled as she looked at it. Curious, Art looked inside the box again, wondering if there was a note inside that might say what the odd looking potion was and who it was from.

Not finding anything else inside, Art searched the top of her table and found a small note from Filch.

_Eldrige,_

_You can have the day off. But don't forget to bathe Mrs. Norris. You've still got to do that._

…_Happy birthday_

Art smiled, suddenly feeling better about her day. He had given her a day off! And to add to that, he must have been the one to give her the curious potion. Why else would he have left a note beside it? She decided that her first item of business on her day off would be to thank him.

Finding him in his office, searching through his prodigious collection of files, Art ran up to him and gave the sour man a quick handshake (hugs were out of the question) and thanked him repeatedly.

"Thank you, so much, sir! Thank you!" Then she proceeded to flee the room. In her hurry to leave the stunned Filch, Art bumped into Snape, who frowned and glared at her before realizing it was just Art. His face immediately went blank.

"Ah, Quinn. I should have known. And what exactly are you up to?"

"I got the day off!" She beamed, he glee undiminished.

"For…ah, yes. Your birthday." He sneered, "And have you enjoyed it so far?"

Art couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not—which meant he probably was. But she answered anyway, "Yes."

He waited for a moment, wondering if she would mention anything else—perhaps a potion. When she didn't speak, Snape prompted irritably, "And?"

"And what? You asked me if I enjoyed my birthday. I did…I am…wasn't I? Wait, what?"

Snape glowered and hissed, "Never mind. Unlike you, I have business to attend to." He pushed past her and disappeared into the caretaker's office.

Wondering what his problem was, Art shrugged and continued her path down the corridor. She paused for a moment and remembered disappointedly that she should have asked Snape if he knew what kind of potion Filch had given her. If anybody could tell her it would be him. Frowning, Art decided that it wouldn't have been worth it anyway, considering the bad mood Snape seemed to be in.

Shrugging again, Art glanced out a window to see what the weather was like outside. Perhaps she could enjoy a book under a tree, or catch something out of the lake. The dark foreboding clouds and cold drizzle, however, smashed those hopes rather quickly. So Art decided to write to her parents and thank them for the extra wool socks they had left with her things as an early birthday gift. By the time she finished her letter, she noticed that the rain had stopped, but the sky was still overcast and the glass on her window was fogged over. Art wondered if there would be any owls willing to deliver her letter in such unwelcoming weather.

Trudging upwards to the owlry, Art made her way up the narrow winding stairs to the tower, entering the surprisingly warm circular room. She looked up to see rafters filled with softly rustling, roosting owls, and tried to find one within her reach. This was when she realized that she was not the only person with the same idea in mind.

Professor Maelstrom turned away from one of the open windows after releasing the owl that had been on his arm and looked at Art with mild surprise.

"Hello, Artemis. What brings you here?"

"Oh…er…I wanted to mail a…letter…" She faltered, embarrassed to run into this man for the second time in two days. She hoped he didn't think she was following him.

If he did, he didn't show any such signs, merely smiling and replying, "Might I be of some assistance?"

Before Art could answer, he took the letter gently from her hand and raised an arm. A big brown owl flapped down and carefully grabbed the envelope in its beak, pushing off from the professor's long bony wrist and taking flight.

"Er…thanks…" Art mumbled bashfully.

"It was my pleasure. Now," he inquired with an inquisitive expression, "Excuse me if I am too forward, but might I ask why you are not assisting the caretaker in his duties?"

"I have the day off," she replied defensively. "It's my birthday."

"Ah, congratulations. How old does that make you?"

"Twenty-two."

"Hmmm, you're very young," he murmured thoughtfully, looking her over.

"Well how old are you then?" Art blurted out before she could stop herself.

Instead of being angry, the man merely smiled vaguely and replied, "Some days I feel like I've been around for centuries. To be safe, though, let's settle for forty-nine."

Art timidly laughed at his joke, relieved that she hadn't offended him. She also noticed that despite his silver hair, his smooth face hardly betrayed his age at all.

"So where are you bound for now?"

Caught off-guard, Art merely replied—"Huh?...oh…er, I—I dunno."

"Might I interest you in a cup of butterbeer?"

Art panicked at the thought of her last encounter with the drink, which was still fresh in her memory. "Er…is tea alright?"

Professor Maelstrom laughed, although Art was pretty sure he knew nothing of her experience. "Yes, I'm sure tea will be fine."

x…x

The astronomy tower was very dark, despite the wide windows that encircled the room. During the day, Professor Maelstrom kept them covered with heavy blue star charts that blocked out just about every particle of light that begged entrance into the room. It was lit with an assortment of candles that left a fain smoky flavour in the air, which seemed to bear down on them with its cold dark presence.

Art shivered slightly, wondering how there could be a draft in the room when all the windows were securely closed and covered. The professor, however, didn't seem to notice. He offered Art a plush, cushioned chair next to a polished mahogany table on which he set two crystal cups with the assistance of his wand.

Art watched curiously as he made his way to the fireplace, where a boiling teakettle already hung. He picked it up and poured the hot water into each cup, letting it soak into the tea leaves before he asked, "I assume you like sugar and cream in yours?"

Art nodded a little, carefully sipping the tea once he had added the last scoop of sugar. She noticed that as she drank, Professor Maelstrom was simply content to watch her, sipping out of his at occasional intervals.

"So…er…do you like it here?" Art inquired after a few moments of silence.

He smiled, "Yes. I find it quite…quaint." He cocked his head to once side, "And how are you getting along here?"

"Well…I'm alright." Art took another nervous gulp of tea.

"Just alright?"

"Yes…I mean, I'm a little tired, that's all."

"Ah, well, aren't we all?" He chuckled, "After all, the new year begins in only a few days." He drank carefully from his tea.

Art nodded, "O—of course." Inside however, she disagreed, thinking about her previous late-night ventures into the dungeons. It didn't help that she was beginning to become restless and unable to sleep if she was not lying side by side with the potions master. Her thoughts were interrupted, however, when she caught sight of the far wall just behind the professor in her attempt to avoid his gaze.

"Are those…are those all _your_ books?" she asked in astonishment.

Professor Maelstrom turned around slowly and gazed fondly at the shelves of books behind him. "Why, yes. Do you like to read?"

"I love to," Art replied fervently, feeling a little more at ease now.

"Well then, since it is your birthday today," he began with a slightly crooked smile, "Why don't you take a look and pick one out for yourself?"

"What?" Art's entire being froze at the idea of taking one of this man's books. They all looked very old and valuable, and she wasn't sure if she could in good conscious take one. "Are you sure?"

"Of course. I hardly read any of them anymore." He chuckled softly. "I've probably memorized them all by now."

Standing, he helped Art up and led her to the wall of books, "Please, take any one you like."

Nervously, Art ran her fingers gently over the volumes, drinking in the faded gold lettering on the cracked leather bindings. Some of the books on close inspection looked several hundred years old.

"I…sir…I—I can't possibly choose one of these."

Professor Maelstrom smiled, seeming to understand her predicament. "Here," he reached out with a hand, "allow me to make a suggestion…"

x…x

Snape wondered if Dumbledore enjoyed toying with his already patched and frayed patience as he climbed the twisting steps up to the astronomy tower. He had made the mistake of passing the headmaster in the hallway, and when the decrepit old man had inquired if he was doing anything, Snape had actually been insane enough to answer with an honest 'no.' Now he was stuck playing Dumbledore's messenger boy again, and he was starting to dislike this Maelstrom character for having to reside in the highest tower in the whole damn castle.

Snape noticed as he rounded another curve that not only were his lower limbs getting sore, but he was beginning to feel slightly dizzy. Cursing, he wondered just when the infernal passageway would end. It so happened that at that moment, he arrived in front of a large wooden door.

"Finally," he muttered darkly and knocked. He hoped that Maelstrom was in and that he wouldn't have to search for the man elsewhere. The thought of the impending venture back down the stairs was enough to make him lose what breath he still had.

"Come in," A voice sounded from within the room, and Snape entered. He suddenly wished that Maelstrom had indeed been elsewhere, and preferably very far away from the second person occupying the chambers.

x…x

Art looked up from the book that Professor Maelstrom was showing her and turned around to see Snape standing in the doorway, his hand still on the doorknob, a look of shock on his face. This expression disappeared quickly, however, and he turned his attention fully toward the gaunt, silver-haired man.

"The headmaster," Snape began in a cold drawl, "would like to have a word with you. And you, Quinn—" he glared at her, "I would like to have a word with you, myself."

"Er…ok…" Art replied in a trembling voice.

"Ah, thank you, Severus. I've been expecting this message." Professor Maelstrom turned to Art, "Perhaps we may continue our discussion another day. Until then, farewell, Artemis." He swept gracefully from the room then, leaving Art alone with Snape.

"Discussion?" Snape inquired with deadly curiosity, circling Art like a vulture. "My, my," he murmured as his black eyes swept across the room, noting the two teacups that still lingered on the table. "You and that Maelstrom fellow seem fairly cosy. Do elucidate on the subject, Quinn." His voice had a sour note in it that made Art hesitate.

"Well, her…I bumped into him and he invited me to tea…then he gave me this book for my birthday." She offered the old, worn volume to him.

Snape took it bad-temperedly and rifled angrily through its pages before replying, "If I wasn't as intelligent as I am, I'd say he fancies you."

Art burst out laughing. After a moment, she seemed to realize that he was serious, and she answered, "Sir, that's ridiculous."

Snape, still unconvinced, tossed the book aside. "Well it isn't as if you are very adept at noticing when somebody fancies you." He glowered at her before stalking for the door and leaving her alone in the room.

Art stood forlornly for a moment before gathering up her book and fleeing for her room, stunned. Who fancied her?

She tried to entertain herself with Dumbledore's set of quills, but could not concentrate, distracted by the unfairness of it all. What gave him the right to tease her like that? Finally Art had stewed long enough in her thoughts. She wasn't going to back down this time, she resolved as she got up and marched down to the dungeons. She was going to tell him exactly what she thought about his latest rampage.

Knocking on the door to his office, Art called, "Sir?" When there was no answer, she cried louder, "_Sir_?" Sighing loudly, Art almost left, but on a sudden whim, she opened the door and burst in. This discussion couldn't wait for him to stop sulking and open the door.

"Professor!" She called, searching his office. When she found that empty, Art investigated the classroom, the storeroom, and even dared enter his private chambers. Upon gaining entrance to this final room, Art was met with a very unexpected sight.

Snape emerged from the bathroom on the far side of the room, clothed in nothing save for a loosely wrapped towel around his waist.

For a moment, the two just stared at each other. Art noticed, much to her embarrassed chagrin, that Snape did in fact own a few decent upper-arm and pectoral muscles. Not something an athlete would have—Snape was far from buff—but all that potion stirring must have resulted in noticeable muscle contours. His hair was slicked back wetly, little beads of water occasionally dripping off onto his pale, goose-pimpled torso.

"Quinn," Snape finally said in an even voice, breaking the thick silence. If Art didn't know any better, she would think he was addressing her in an expensive suit rather than a dull grey, somewhat dishevelled towel.

She suddenly broke out of her stupor and covered her eyes. "I'm sorry, sir! I can come back later!" She cried, turning and fleeing. Unfortunately, she forgot to uncover her eyes and she was impeded by something firm and unyielding. She removed her hands from her face and stared at the door frame as Snape remarked, "That, Quinn, would be the wall."

Art tried to make up an excuse, and Snape attempted to continue his phrase, resulting in a lot of babbling at the same time.

"Now, Quinn, if you—"

"Well, I—I was just coming to—"

"…wished to say something—"

"…how much I dislike—"

"…waited, or perhaps—"

"…but I can leave if—"

Snape held up a hand and they both stopped, staring at each other for a long, terse moment before Art decided to change the topic to something a little safer. She had lost all desire to complain to him.

"Er…I was wondering, sir, if you could tell me…" she dug nervously in her pocket before feeling her fist close around a small vial, "…what—er—this potion that Filch gave me is."

Snape stared blankly at her, barely glancing at the potion before choking out, "Filch?"

"Yeah."

His dark eyebrows suddenly thrust themselves down into his eyes and he hissed, "That is _not_ Filch's potion. Now sit and let me explain something to you."

Art couldn't find a chair in the vicinity so, too afraid to search for one, she sat on the floor at the edge of a small dark rug. She watched as Snape paced across it, glaring at her for brief intervals before beginning his lecture. Art noticed that he still hadn't bothered to change and was therefore absently holding up his towel with one hand as he spoke.

"Now listen, Quinn, and listen well because I won't repeat myself. That potion is very difficult to brew. It not only requires exact amounts of the choicest ingredients, but the perfect attention to even the smallest details. Many experienced wizards have difficulty brewing this, and it is absurdly expensive in any store that might hold it. And speaking of that…"

Art slowly drifted off as Snape continued on, wondering how long he would keep ranting. She just wanted to know what the potion did. She didn't care if Filch hadn't given it to her. She still didn't know what it was.

"Sir—" she piped up.

He only continued, "…which proves that it is impossible for a decent wizard, much less an incompetent squib—"

"Sir—" she said louder.

"—could possibly even think to try something so complex—"

"SIR!"

"What, Quinn?" He replied irately, "Do _not_ interrupt me!"

Art hushed and pouted, returning her attention elsewhere while she waited for him to finish. After several minutes, she noticed that the fringe on the rug in front of her was a little uneven, so she plucked at it in an attempt to straighten it. The carpet slid a little on the stone floor, and one of the small strings on the fringe stretched out, now a good centimetre longer than the others. Annoyed, Art pulled at it, trying to get it to come out altogether.

Snape, who was too caught up in his annoyance to notice Art, suddenly felt a slight jerk beneath his feet. Frowning, he looked down at the rug before another sudden tug pulled it from underneath his feet and sent him tumbling onto his backside. Needless to say, the towel was lost, and both Art's face and Snape's face turned interesting shades of scarlet.

"I'll get it—" Art cried as she dove for the towel, but Snape seemed just as determined to get it for himself. They both reached it at the same time and, after a brief wrestling match, Art found herself pinned underneath the potions master, who still wasn't wearing his towel.

"Uh…er…" Art stammered nervously, "Sir, you aren't wearing any clothes."

He stared at her for a few minutes before he carefully and slowly replied, "And you, Quinn, are wearing too many."

Art barely had time to comprehend what he was saying before he kissed her, still being decent enough to reach for his towel and pull it over himself.

"Um…is this…a good idea…prof—" Art tried to ask.

He paused and assessed her before muttering, "Don't worry. I will stop before things get out of hand."

She let herself fall prey to his wandering hands, closing her eyes and smiling. When he attempted to pick her up, however, she hesitated, again asking, "Should we be doing this?"

"Look, Quinn," he replied, "I will stop before anything indecent happens. Now hold still…"

Art stopped moving and let him carry her—with slight difficulty—toward the bed, which they collapsed on and where Snape continued his fascinated exploration of Art's anatomy. She wondered nervously if he was going to stop soon, especially when her reservations began to give way to fiercer emotions that threatened to take control of her.

"Sir—" She began in an urgent tone.

"Quinn," he sat up with dishevelled hair and a disgruntled expression, "for the last time, stop interrupting!"

Art silenced herself, and carefully gave her reservations up as the warm, exciting feelings engulfed her.

x…x

Quite a while later, Art and Snape both laid side by side on their backs and stared at the ceiling in awkward silence. Art wanted to say something and rid herself of the uncomfortable feeling, but she wasn't sure what to say. Finally, she rolled onto her side, facing away from Snape and looking over the edge of the bed at the stone floor.

She hesitated for a moment before she spoke, feeling Snape shift slightly behind her as she opened her mouth. "You didn't stop…sir…"

There was a small pause before he replied, "No."

Art bit her lip and glanced back. Snape was still too enthralled by the ceiling to care about what she was saying.

"Er…so what's your favourite colour?"

"Black," he replied shortly.

"Oh…is black really a colour?"

"Yes."

Art didn't argue. After a few minutes, she stated, "Mine is blue…or maybe green…or red……purple?"

"Quinn," Snape stated with great annoyance, "You might consider the safety of silence."

"Oh."

Snape closed his eyes and smiled slightly, enjoying the sensation of Art's bare skin against his. He moved closer, leaning on his side and sliding an arm around her waist, resting his chin in her thick red hair.

"Sir, I'm bored." Art's voice broke his reverie.

He sighed, realizing that he wasn't going to get silence anytime soon. "And you think talking will alleviate this boredom?"

Art rolled onto her back and turned to face him. She found herself staring at his chest because he had shifted so that his head was above hers. "Yes," she informed his shoulder as she scooted up so that she could see his face.

"Well then," he stated softly, his voice smooth and subtly curious.

Art couldn't help but get the sense that she was about to be manipulated as he continued.

"Tell me, Quinn, what you think about what we have just…accomplished."

Art hesitated. What did he want her to say? "Er…well….you didn't stop…?"

He grimaced. "And?"

"Um…you never told me what the potion was."

"It was _felix felicitus_, a good luck potion," he answered grudgingly.

"Really? Who do you think gave it to me?"

Snape's brow furrowed suddenly, and Art realized her mistake.

"Oh! It was you! ...er, thank you...um," she sat up, "Sir, I should probably go before Filch comes looking for me. He'll have work for me to do, you know."

Snape took her by the arm and pulled her toward him, forcefully pressing his lips to hers, his cold white hands cupping her face. "You leave now and I'll curse you, Quinn," he murmured against her mouth, carefully easing his way on top of her so that she could no longer move, much less escape.

"Are you sure, Sir? I think it would be best if I--"

"The time for words is done," he growled darkly against her ear, his breath stirring her hair. "Shut up."

Art did so, her desire to leave suddenly evaporating.


	16. First Names

_Well, here's the most recent addition, thanks to much sugar and a few minutes of free time. Hope you enjoy!_

Art didn't see Snape again until after the school term began. He hadn't even come to the sorting banquet. She wondered if he was avoiding her. She certainly felt awkward about their last encounter.

Of course, then there was the small matter of the floo outbreak shortly after the first day of classes. It had not been tracked to the source, but teachers speculated that a student must have had a small bit of infected floo powder on their cloak. Needless to say, nearly the entire population in the school had been affected, ether with mildly reddened eyes and noses, or laid out flat by nausea, intense stomach pains, high fever, and—of course—chronic purple vomiting.

Art, having never come in contact with floo powder in her life (infected or not), was in the latter group. Between frequent dashes to the bathroom and back, Art rubbed her itching eyes and blew her sore red nose to gain a few moments respite from her completely blocked nasal passages. She was miserable, especially considering that Snape had not come to see her, although one morning she woke to see an anonymous bottle with a note beside it in familiar tiny handwriting.

_This is a modified pepper-up potion. Don't drink it all or you'll explode. One sip should help you with your symptoms...or it might just increase the frequency of your expeditions to the loo._

Art scowled darkly, sensing the obvious humour in this phrase, but she kept reading although her head swam and she shivered involuntarily.

_Either way, it's up to you whether you wish to chance it or not. My most humble apologies for missing your…cheerful company._

Making a face, Art bent over and reached for the stationary kit Dumbledore had given her, intending to respond to this less-than-amusing letter. She was postponed, however, by another bathroom trip, and she returned exhausted and very queasy. Fortunately she was able to gather the energy to scribble a hasty:

_Keep your damn potion, you pig._

Nodding with satisfaction, Art placed her letter by the potion before falling back on her pillows and into unconsciousness. (She did not hear the slight chuckle at the reception of her letter later that evening).

When she woke the next morning, Art found that while the potion was still there, her letter was not, and there was a new one in its place.

_I see you are not in the mood for humour. Still, I recommend you take the potion. Good day._

Feeling slightly sorry for her rude behaviour, Art replied:

_Thank you. I'll try it._

Putting the letter down, Art nervously took a tiny sip and hurriedly put the bottle down, gasping and choking on the strong liquid. She suddenly felt as though her insides were on fire. After another adventure to the bathroom, Art immediately fell asleep, too tired to renege her "thank you."

Still, when she woke the next afternoon, Art admitted that she did feel much better, especially since the potion had nearly completely cleared up her nasal passages. So, upon finding no note and no potion on her bedside table, Art cautiously made her way down to the Potion Master's office.

"Sir?" She knocked on the door.

No discernable answer came, and Art stepped inside. She was a little more hesitant about entering Snape's private chambers when she did not see him in the office, but she mustered up the courage to enter.

As soon as she opened the door, Art was immediately enlightened to the reason Snape had not come to see her while she was awake.

Lying on his back in bed with all the covers piled over him and a pillow on top of his head was, presumable, Snape, who removed the pillow upon her entry and blinked a few times before muttering in a hoarse whisper, "Why are _you_ here?"

Art's eyes widened, and she realized Snape had completely lost his voice. "I—I—I…" she stammered before suddenly learning that he was in no place to scold her.

"You're sick too!"

He cast her a jaundiced expression as if to say, "how observant."

"I mean…that's why you haven't, you know, been out."

Snape raised an eyebrow weakly, his face unusually pale, and actually spoke this time, "Your powers of perception are acute," he murmured sarcastically in a gravelly voice, a spasmodic cough wracking his frame after he spoke.

She frowned, ignoring him, "But wait…_you_ were missing since before the banquet! That must mean—"

"Yes, Quinn," Snape interrupted, "I was the first to fall ill."

"Then you know where it came from!"

"Regrettably I don't. Any number of house-elves could have passed it to me somehow. They are immune to the virus, but they can still carry it."

"Oh," Art suddenly felt tired after using all her perceptiveness.

Snape seemed to read her rather well, and he sighed, "Sit down, Quinn. You look ready to fall over."

Art suddenly realized that indeed she was trembling and more than slightly light-headed, and she hastily sat on the side of the bed. Snape didn't seem to mind, though he gave a slight involuntary groan when she sat down too quickly and jostled him.

"Sorry," she mumbled.

"Lie down," he merely replied, holding out the blankets for her to crawl under.

She was too weak to resist, and she did as he instructed, cuddling up to him and noticing that he was radiating heat, although it was obvious by the tremors that passed through him that he felt very cold.

"Are you alright, sir?"

He shot her a sardonic expression with his black eyes and stated hoarsely, "Of course, Quinn."

Sorry," she replied automatically.

He ignored her.

After a while, Art looked up at his pale face and furrowed her brow. "Sir?"

Another spasm of coughing came over him, but after a few moments he glared at her with watery black eyes. "My name…is Severus. Use it, Quinn."

She frowned, "Is that allowed?"

His steady stare—only interrupted by another coughing fit—answered her question.

"Okay…Severus…" She tried the new word out and realized that she didn't mind it the way she thought she would.

Even Snape's demeanour relaxed a little and he replied, "Yes?"

"Um…I forgot what I was going to ask."

He made an exasperated face, but did not scold her. He merely replaced the pillow over his head and attempted to sleep.

x…x

When he woke, Art was gone, and he sat up with a detrimental effect to his feelings of well-being as he looked around the room. Art was nowhere to be found, but there was a note in her place on the bed which read:

_I'll be back soon. Move and I'll…do something mean to you._

Snape gave one short huff that resembled a laugh as he read the note. Quinn still had much to learn about threats, and he was quite sure she would fail to follow through on her lukewarm attempts at coercion. Still, she needn't have worried, considering that he felt in no shape to go anywhere. He had gotten worse it seemed, despite his own use of the pepper-up potion.

True to Art's letter, it was only a few more minutes before she returned, bearing a tray and a bowl that contained something hot enough to let off quite a bit of steam in the cold room. Snape winced when she spoke, her quiet voice violently assaulting his sore frame as though it was Hagrid speaking to him rather than Art.

"I brought you some soup," She said comfortingly, sitting gently on the edge of the bed and proffering the tray to him.

Grudgingly, Snape began to reach for it, wondering where she had gotten it at this time of night.

"I made it myself," Art stated proudly as he carefully took a sip from the spoon.

Any small bit of soup Snape might have had in his mouth was immediately expelled and the bowl was hastily pushed away as he spluttered.

"Well the house-elves helped a bit!" She exclaimed indignantly, sliding it back across the tray to where he could reach it. "It isn't bad."

Snape cast a wary glance at her, but did not argue, merely taking a few half-hearted sips of the broth before pushing it away again. This time, when Art tried to make him eat it again, he resisted, quietly replying, "I'm full."

This was a lie, considering that he hadn't eaten for four days straight now, but he did not have the strength to tell her that the soup was simply too strong for him. Finally, Art seemed to understand that Snape was not feeling well enough to eat, and she set the tray on a nearby table, turning back to him with a concerned look and lightly brushing his forehead with her fingertips. His face was clammy and very warm, and he shivered at the touch of her cool fingers.

"S…everus," Art barely remembered to call him by name. "You aren't getting any better. Don't you think you should see Madame Pomfrey?"

He gave her a look that clearly said "no."

"But what if you get worse?" She seemed genuinely worried.

He avoided her gaze for a moment before reaching for her hand and lacing his fingers through hers. A hoarse, garbled whisper escaped his lips and—though Art couldn't hear it—she understood that he was attempting to comfort her.

"Well…I'm still going to look after you."

Snape smiled slightly and closed his eyes, content with that information, if not completely set at ease. Sitting, propped up on several pillows at the head of the bed, Art watched as the Potions Master slowly drifted off to sleep, his head falling onto her shoulder as he sunk into unconsciousness.

x…x

It did not take long for many of the students and staff members to recover from their bouts of the floo, but for whatever cruel reason, Snape was still ill enough to be bedridden for several more days. While the rest of the school sputtered back into life, the Potions Master remained in bed, held there only by Art's weak insistence and his own inability to stand on his own.

Despite Snape's obvious lack of enthusiasm, Dumbledore had assured him that his classes were well taken care of and Art could stay with him long enough to make sure that he rested as long as he needed to. Unable to protest, Snape resigned himself to long days in bed, with only Art as company. Thus began an interesting training period between the two, during which Art began calling the Potions Master by his familiar name, learning that she would now be ignored if she ever forgot and accidentally addressed him as "sir" or "professor."

She also learned how to brew several new potions at the behest of the ill man, who would quietly whisper instructions in a hoarse voice before letting her loose in his lab. Snape became quite comfortable with the help of Art's fever-reducing, pain-killing, and even nausea-suppressing potions. She had become somewhat proficient at finding everything she needed, and was adequate at following instructions and creating the correct potions. After a few days, however, Snape did not need her assistance with brewing anymore, and she was reduced to mere company again.

One grey afternoon, Snape lay snug under the heavy blankets, while Art cradled his head in her lap, brushing his dark hair away from his face. His eyes were closed, and Art could clearly see the toll the illness had taken on him. His normally gaunt face was completely sunken in, showing the bone structure clearly through the tight layer of flesh. The skin itself had a sickly bluish hue, and his eye sockets looked bruised and dark under his clammy brow.

She touched his pale, cracked lips with the ends of her fingers, staring down as his eyes flickered briefly open. Art was relieved to see that in those dark eyes there was still a spark of indignation beneath the surface. As long as Snape still had the strength to resent being fussed over, Art was sure he would be alright.

Trying to sit up, Snape managed to shift enough that he could lean against the headboard and prop himself up in a semblance of a sitting position.

The two companions sat together in relative silence that was only broken by a few weak coughs from Snape, and it seemed the Potions Master was about to fall asleep again when Art suddenly asked, "Sir?"

She was ignored.

"Si—oh, er, Severus?"

Snape weakly turned his head, "What?"

Art seemed to have trouble finding words, but she finally managed to stutter nervously, "I…will you tell me a-about…_her_?"

The man's face suddenly went dark. After a few moments, however, he began to speak in his rasping half-voice. "We were friends," he began, staring broodingly at his feet. "I knew her since childhood." A semblance of a smile crossed his face, "She was always very kind, especially when we were both accepted to Hogwarts." His face changed again, becoming sombre, "I did not find many new friends here, but she…she _blossomed_. It only makes sense that she grew closer to people who were more like her. Things began to come between us, and we began to think very differently. Eventually I found myself only a very small part of her life, and I drifted quietly out of her existence."

"Wasn't that hard?"

"It was painful," he admitted slowly, "but no more so than if I had tried to stay in her life. By the time I realized how much I cared for her there was no more room for me. She was married and had a child." There was a long silence, and Art thought Snape was finished speaking, but he continued once more, in a voice more broken than before.

"She was killed only a year later. She and her husband both." His mouth trembled slightly, almost imperceptibly, but then his jaw tightened and he set his lips in a grim expression. After a few moments, it became apparent that he was done talking.

Art wasn't sure how to respond. Finally, seeing that the pain he was in was not diminishing, Art touched his face and leaned in, putting her lips to his and closing her eyes tiredly. Stunned, Snape hesitantly wrapped his arms around her, shivering slightly as Art responded by sliding her arms around his torso.

"I love you," she whispered, opening her grey eyes enough to look into his. "I'm sorry."

Snape merely pulled her closer and held on tightly to her, feeling the tight pain that gripped his chest slowly ebb away. "Quinn…" He murmured and stroked her red hair, for once at a loss for words.

Finally Art looked up, "Should I make some soup?"

Relieved at the change of subject, Snape merely nodded. He watched as Art slowly got up, carefully calculating her as he left.

x…x

Snape's voice was still slightly gravelly a week later when he insisted on returning to work, but compared to a few days ago, it sounded marvellously smooth to Art, and seemed to please her quite a bit. She visited him in the evening after his second day back just to hear him talk to her, not even minding that his quick temper and snide manner had returned with his voice.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Miss Eldrige?" He replied in a haughty voice, sounding more like a rude manservant than a mocking teacher.

"Sorry…Severus." Art quickly amended before continuing, "I've just been reading that book Professor Maelstrom gave to me and I noticed a page was missing. You don't happen to know where it went, do you?"

Snape raised an eyebrow, a bit put off at being distracted from his grading. "As if I should care about what that dandy gives you?" He snorted and added, "That book is so old the page probably just fell out."

"But look; it's only that one page, and I can see part of it still tucked into the binding," she turned it around to offer him a glance.

"Hmm…" He put his work aside and glanced at it, "_valeroot _to _wyrmsage_," he read out loud before addressing Art, "What sort of book is this anyway?"

Art turned to the cover, reading, "_A Guide to Magical Flora and Fauna of High Romania._ That's plants and animals," she explained.

Snape grimaced, replying absently, "I _know_." He continued thoughtfully, "It seems this is missing information, considering that most books don't go straight from 'Va' to 'Wy.' Perhaps your gracious benefactor decided he didn't like something on that missing page."

Art furrowed her brow. "Why? Do you think it was important?"

"Knowing him? Probably not. That Maelstrom git is so caught up in his own little world that he hardly knows what's happening around him." Snape made a disgusted face.

"He's not a git," Art muttered absently, staring at the place where the missing page should be, wondering if Vaughan Maelstrom might be hiding something. She noted with interest that his name fit perfectly between valeroot and wyrmsage. Finally, she shrugged, "Well, what do you think I should do?"

"Do?" Snape asked incredulously, as if he couldn't believe that Art should care. "Nothing. It doesn't matter. Although," he mused, half to himself, "If you really do care that much, I suppose you could try…oh, perhaps _asking him_?" His tone had changed throughout the whole phrase, becoming quite acidic toward the end. He began to shuffle through papers again, adding, "Now stop bothering me with your fantasies about your would-be suitor. Some of us don't have time to wonder about mysterious missing pages."

Art frowned, sensing the bitter tones in his voice. "He's not a suitor, and I'm not fantasizing about him." She suddenly smiled, "Although I _did_ have an interesting dream about you last night."

"Oh?" Snape suddenly seemed to gain interest again.

"But you don't have time to listen to that, I'm sure," she replied, standing. "After all, you're _so_ busy." She giggled and fled the room before Snape could do anything in retaliation.

Making her way back to her room, Art was surprised to see Professor Maelstrom standing beside the door, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed comfortably over his chest.

"Ah, Artemis," he smiled and addressed her as she approached, standing straight and offering his hand in greeting. "I came to see you and was told you had just left. I had hoped you would return soon."

"Oh, well I was just…doing some reading..." She smiled shyly and held up the book.

Professor Maelstrom's smile broadened and he replied, "Please call me Vaughan. Are you enjoying your book?"

"Yes, very much actually." Art responded, surprised that the man had invited her to use his first name, "It's quite enlightening."

"Good, good." He nodded.

"So, er, what brings you here?"

"Ah, well, I have been hearing rumours about an interesting assortment of creatures down by the forest. I was curious to see the collection and several people said that you would know about them."

Art laughed in astonishment, "Oh no!" she exclaimed, "If you want to see animals you need to talk to Hagrid. He's the groundkeeper here. But I'd be glad to show you where he is if you'd like."

Smiling gently, Professor Maelstrom quietly inclined his head, murmuring, "Of course. Please show the way."

Art nodded, "Alright," and led him toward the main entrance and out toward Hagrid's hut on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. "I like to visit the animals a lot because I've grown up around all sorts all my life," Art explained as they journeyed across the chilly grounds, "but Hagrid's the expert. He loves any kind of animal. Especially the dangerous ones," she confided quietly.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, we have all sorts of weird animals. Well, and some normal ones too, like cows and chickens and stuff." Art began to list off all the names of the animals she could remember. Finally they arrived at Hagrid's house, and after introductions and welcomes, Art declined the invitation for tea and left Professor Maelstrom in Hagrid's care, wandering back up to the castle to do a bit of reading.

Curiously, she thought about what the professor had said earlier. Why had people recommended her to him when he asked about animals? Especially with Hagrid so near. Only Snape knew about her shapeshifting abilities, and she had thought that very few people knew she came from a farm. Shrugging, she tossed those thoughts aside, not needing the extra confusion. She merely returned to her room and continued reading, too tired to think about anything else just then.

However, some questions must have remained in her subconscious, and they quickly returned to the front of her mind as she tried to sleep later that night. Why was Professor Maelstrom so interested in the animals? Why had he asked her about them? And why was that page missing from the book? Finally, Art decided that she needed to find a different way to get to sleep, considering that lying in bed and staring at the ceiling wasn't helping much. She thought about joining Snape, but he was still recuperating a bit, and she was sure he wouldn't welcome any interruptions to his sleep. After a few moments of deep thought, Art had an idea.

Hurriedly putting on a warm pair of socks and shoes and throwing on a cloak, Art dashed down the corridor and toward the exit, stealing across the grounds until she came to the paddock near the edge of the forest where Hagrid kept most of the livestock for the castle. She slowly made her way toward the scattered group of cattle that sat on the grass or stood grazing a small distance away.

Her thoughts were much slower as a cow, Art contemplated as she began to chew on her own share of cool grass under the cold white moon. The rhythmic motion of her jaw as she ground the greens in her mouth and the soft breeze that rippled the long grass in front of her began to make Art feel drowsy almost immediately, and her eyelids began to droop. She was contemplating staying the night with the other cattle when she suddenly heard a stirring behind her.

Turning her head slightly to survey the area, Art was surprised to catch a glimpse of a tall cloaked figure silhouetted in the moonlight. Was that—Professor Maelstrom? Uttering a soft grunt in surprise—the cow equivalent to a gasp—Art watched as the man carefully stepped into the paddock and came nearer, smiling in his usual crooked way. What was he doing here at this time of night? Worse yet, did he know she was here?

Art seemed to have caught his eye, because he approached her first, his hand outstretched so that she could smell him, which she carefully did before he began to stroke the fur on her head and scratch behind her ears.

"There," he murmured, "you aren't such a bad creature, are you?" His hand moved over her cheek and down the side of her neck before he moved it back up, sliding it along the underside of her throat. It stopped right below her jaw, resting on her pounding jugular veins. "Warm…" he muttered before looking into the cow's curious brown eyes, "…frightened?" His smile widened and he stroked Art's head.

Art stood very still as the man began to make his way down her spine, his hand finally resting on her hindquarters. She couldn't crane her head around far enough to see what he was doing, but he seemed to have stopped, and Art decided that he must have gotten distracted. After a few moments, she relaxed, no longer worried about him. She lowered her head and began to graze again, determined to act like a normal animal until Professor Maelstrom left. It was impossible to be sure, but it seemed as though he didn't know that she was the cow he was admiring.

Suddenly, Art felt a sharp pinch in her thigh, and she let out an involuntary bellow. She tried to move, but something held her back. She suddenly realized that it was the professor. Trying vainly to get away or at least find out what the hell he was doing to her, Art kicked out with her back hooves, finally finding her mark and catching the man on his knee.

He dropped his ridiculously strong grip on her and collapsed, obviously in real pain. Art struggled to see her hindquarters, and managed to catch a glimpse of blood running down her hock. Letting out a bellow of pain, she whirled on the professor, and with shock caught sight of his pale face.

Not only was his jaw smeared with blood—Art's blood, she reminded herself—but the sticky red fluid dripped down onto his throat and flecked his pallid cheeks as well. That wasn't what scared Art the most, however. Engraved on his cold marble face was the expression of a predator, fierce and angry, his narrow eyes hungry. She was stunned by the staggering change from the genteel, courteous man she had seen only a few hours earlier.

Panicking, Art ran for the fence and shifted without even thinking as she tore out of the paddock and toward the castle. She didn't stop to look back, not knowing if he was following her or not. Unable to think clearly, her mind whirling, Art raced down the stairs to the dungeons and burst into Snape's chambers.

"Quinn?" The man sat up, blinking tiredly as she stuttered an explanation.

"S-s-sir…I just…I mean, Severus…I—he _bit_ me!" She exclaimed. As if saying it helped clear her thoughts, Art suddenly realized something. "He's a vampire!"

"What?" Snape asked in a monotone voice, obviously still trying to make sure he was awake. "Quinn, stop babbling and come here. Now tell me exactly what happened."

Art sat gingerly on the edge of the bed before jumping up, her hand clutching her backside. "I was outside, and then P-professor Maelstrom came. I though he just wanted to see the animals, but he didn't! He bit me! I knew there was a reason the page in the book was missing! He's a vampire!"

Snape suddenly snorted. "Quinn, listen to yourself. That is ridiculous."

"B-but…I have proof…" Art stammered quietly, realizing that Snape didn't believe her.

"You say he bit you? I see no marks," he said as he stood and examined her neck.

"He didn't bite me there," Art replied morosely. "I was a cow at the time."

"What?" Snape seemed more outraged at this than at Art's news. "You shifted _on school grounds_? Do you know how dangerous that is?"

"I was trying to relax," Art stated sadly.

"That is no excuse!"

"Sir—verus," Art butted in, "_he bit me_!"

Snape didn't seem pleased to be interrupted, but he crossed his arms sceptically and asked, "Where?"

"Here," Art pointed to an area somewhere between her right buttock and her thigh.

"There?" Snape asked in disbelief.

"Yes! See?" She held up her cloak and fumbled with her pants until she was able to expose the pale flesh on her thigh. Indeed, embedded in her skin was a dark crescent shape from which welled fresh red blood.

Hesitantly examining it closer, Snape tried to see through the blood without actually touching the wound, knowing that it would cause Art quite a bit of pain.

"Are you sure you didn't just panic and catch yourself on a bit of wire?" Snape's voice was still a bit sceptical.

"Professor!" Art exclaimed, suddenly standing up and whisking the wound out of view. "I was there! I…felt it!"

"…But you didn't see it," Snape replied, correctly interpreting Art's pause.

"…no," she admitted softly. "I didn't."

"Well, all that's left to do is send you to Madame Pomfrey." Snape noticed Art's forlorn look and added, "Look, Quinn. I want to believe you, but you don't understand just how far fetched your story sounds. Something else must have happened. Dumbledore would never hire a vampire."

Art frowned, but realized that Snape had a point. Perhaps he was right; maybe in her panic she had made things seem worse than they were. Sighing, she ceded to him. "I suppose…" she murmured softly, "I could have…panicked."

Snape touched her face and leaned toward her, kissing the corner of her mouth lightly. "There. Now go to the hospital wing before you bleed all over my floor."

She winced and turned to go. Snape watched as she limped toward the exit, making sure she was gone before he returned to his bed. Everything had happened so fast that he wondered if he was even awake, or if he was merely experiencing another one of those cursed fever dreams. Closing his eyes, he soon drifted off again, while Art made her way to the infirmary. Nobody notice the dark figure that sulked in the shadows of the castle, still hungry, but not daring enough to risk coming out. That girl had seen him; he had bitten her, and she had kicked him. Life was going to be very difficult for him if he didn't rid himself of that pest soon…

_Alright, so here's where the real story begins. Hope you liked it! Please review!_


	17. Blood

_Well, here it is, my final chapter of the story...that is, not counting the epilogue. But that'll come later. ...Anyway, I apologize beforehand for the rest of this..._

Fortunately, Art's spell of bad luck seemed to have petered out over the next few weeks; her wound healed, as did Snape, and things returned to a somewhat normal state. Art still tried to avoid Professor Maelstrom, considering that it was the safest thing to do. She didn't know if he had recognized her or not, and she didn't want to give him reason to suspect—or bite—her. Despite her best efforts, however, Art could only dodge his attempts to meet her for so long, and she eventually found him waiting for her one evening in front of the Great Hall. Inwardly cringing, Art prepared herself for the painful encounter that seemed ready to come. It never did.

The silver-haired man merely smiled gently and stated, "It has been a while, Artemis. Are you quite well?"

Art furrowed her brow momentarily, trying to divine some sinister meaning underlying his kind phrase. The moment passed, however, and Art decided that he must not have realized that she was the animagus he had attacked a few weeks ago. She managed a small smile and answered, "I'm alright. It's just been…busy, you know, with everybody being sick and all that cleaning…" Art hesitated, realizing that she was rambling.

All Professor Maelstrom did was smile slightly. After another moment, he cleared his throat and stated smoothly, "Well, perhaps if you are not too busy, you might join me for tea tomorrow?"

Hasty excuses went rattling through Art's mind, but before she could stop herself, she replied, "Of course," in a squeaky voice.

"Good. Shall I escort you inside for dinner then?" Art frowned and wondered if he was joking, but when he offered her his arm, she could instantly see that he was serious.

Timidly, Art placed her hand on his arm and allowed him to guide her through the door and toward the head table. Immediately head's turned to watch them. There weren't many students there yet, but Art noticed that Filch, at the lonely little table by the door, was staring at her with surprise and indignation. She attempted to inform Professor Maelstrom that she usually sat by Filch, but he smoothly insisted that she sit beside him that night.

"After all," he explained, "it has been a while since I have been graced by your enlivening presence."

Art wasn't sure if he was being sarcastic or not, having grown used to Snape's off-hand sarcasm, but it seemed as though he was sincere, especially when he smiled crookedly at her. She did not miss the fact that teachers had noticed the curious sight of the quiet, dignified astronomy professor escorting Filch's shy, unobtrusive assistant to her chair. He smiled and sat beside her, cordially greeting Flitwick, who sat on his other side.

Nervously, Art glanced around the table, wondering exactly who had been there to witness the interesting spectacle. Most of the teachers had shrugged the curious occurrence off and were now resuming their own discussions. One pair of eyes, however, met hers and held her in a hypnotic gaze. Art wished to focus her attentions elsewhere, but was unable to look away from the back stare until Snape growled softly and turned away with a snarl on his face. Art suddenly felt like the lowest crumble of dust to settle on the earth. Surely Snape knew she was terrified of the silver-haired man at her side, didn't he? Or did he think that her fear resembled the very fear she had felt for the Potions Master just a few months ago?

"Artemis, are you feeling well?" Professor Maelstrom touched her arm lightly and drew her from her reverie, his face concerned.

She nodded quickly and lied, "I'm fine."

The man did not seem convinced, but he reluctantly turned away again and let her be for the rest of the evening, although he noted that her mood had definitely taken a dark turn.

Art didn't even feel like eating anymore, although she had missed lunch and had a small breakfast. The food that she managed to force down might have been dirt for all she knew, and she didn't seem to be able to carry on a simple conversation, too entrenched in her thoughts.

Finally Professor Maelstrom excused himself, having hardly touched his own food, and offered Art a hand.

"Would you care for a stroll? Perhaps the night air will do you some good."

Art looked up and smiled wanly, "I…I think I'd just like to go to my room now, thank you."

The man's smile tightened and became somewhat grim. He doggedly pressed her further, "You're _quite_ sure?"

"Yes," Art replied, standing as well.

"Then will you at least allow me the honour of escorting you to your chambers?"

Art couldn't think of a viable excuse to exclude him, so she nodded, "Alright," and took care to give him a slight smile. He seemed to relax a bit, and smiled in return.

As he accompanied her from the Great Hall and up the stairs, Art glanced at him. He seemed tired and worn, but when he caught her looking at him, he stiffened noticeably. Art quickly looked away.

Finally, as they came upon Art's rooms, and she turned to bid him good night, Art suddenly found her shoulder pinned to the wall by Professor Maelstrom's hand. His grip was gentle, but unyielding when she tried to break free.

"Artemis," his voice was urgent, and as Art looked up at him, she saw worry creasing his face. "I know what you are."

A small, startled noise that sounded something like "hnh?" escaped her.

"And I know you know what I am," he continued in earnest. "Now I am pleading that you keep silent for my sake, as well as yours." His expression changed instantly as he regarded Art, touching her cheek with his free hand, "I have no interest in changing the way things are between us."

Art tried to speak in a clear tone, but it came out more of a whisper, "There are people who think otherwise," she stated hoarsely, her mind lingering on Snape's expression at dinner.

"They may set their minds at rest, then."

Art wanted to believe what he was saying, but there was something behind that diplomatic sheen on his face that frightened her. He was afraid. Desperation etched his features, and she noticed his hand trembling as he held her against the wall.

"I had no intention of telling—" Art replied.

His steely eyes bored into hers, "You have not told anyone? Not even Severus?"

"Well…" she hesitated and his grip on her shoulder tightened. "He didn't believe me!" She hastily added.

Professor Maelstrom relaxed again. "Good. Then I have no reason to silence you. You have been such entertaining company, after all."

Art blinked and was about to ask what he meant by that, but he had disappeared. She sighed in relief and slumped to the floor, breathing heavily. So she had been right. Her hand instinctively went up to her neck, causing her to wince due to the complaining of her sore shoulder. Did she dare tell Snape? She wondered. It was difficult to tell if he would believe her, and if he didn't then why should she risk her life? Pausing, Art finally decided against it and went into her room. She would talk to Snape tomorrow and try to explain things to him without mentioning that she had indeed been right about Professor Maelstrom.

x…x

"Sir?"

"Go away, Quinn," a surly voice carried through the locked door.

Art had noticed the empty bottle on Snape's desk when she entered his office, and she was worried that he had decided to drink again. Her suspicions were confirmed when she attempted to enter his private chambers only to find the door barred from the inside.

"Sir, I need to talk to you."

"You may do so elsewhere," came the facetious reply.

"I can't talk to you if I leave!" She protested through the heavy door.

"Exactly." His murmur was just loud enough to carry through to her.

"Look," She said, slightly frustrated as she sat down in a chair by the door. "I just wanted to apologize. I didn't mean to upset you last night—"

"Too late," Snape replied, standing in the doorway.

Art looked up and saw with relief that Snape did not seem angry. He looked mad, yes, but somehow Art could see that he wanted to forgive her.

She approached shyly and whispered, "I know you don't like Professor Maelstrom, but I promise that he was just being chivalrous last night. He…he needed to talk to me about something."

Suddenly, Snape's surliness didn't seem to be as false as before. "Talk about what, may I ask?"

Art realized that she shouldn't have spoken. "I—I can't tell you," she said lamely, looking down at her feet.

Snape sneered, "Of course not. But may I be permitted to guess?" He didn't wait for Art to respond, "Why, I believe I know what the two of you must have discussed last night!" He exclaimed in a bitter, mocking tone that distressed Art very much. "I suppose you wanted to really know why he bit you, didn't you?" His expression hardened and he raised his voice over her protests, "I don't think it was because he's a vampire, was it, Quinn? Quite a clever, if far-fetched, ruse; I almost believed you until you showed up last night hanging off that man's arm!"

Art cringed and fought back the urge to cry as Snape catapulted forward and grabbed her shoulders, "Where else did the _dear_ professor 'bite' you, Quinn?" He inquired furiously, barely an inch from Art's face.

At this, Art welled into tears, "I'm not lying!" she insisted, "I—he admitted it last night! He _is_ a vampire! That's what we were talking about! He threatened that if I told anyone…" She broke off, sniffling under Snape's cold, steady gaze.

"I'm going to have a word with this man," Snape stated icily, leaving the room in a billowing of robes.

Art could not bring herself to follow, wondering miserably what she had gotten herself into—what she had gotten Snape tangled in…

x…x

The door to Professor Maelstrom's study burst open, and he looked up with a mild expression, casually meeting Snape's livid face.

"Yes?" He inquired calmly.

"Stow it, Maelstrom," Snape addressed him sharply, striding forward aggressively. "What do you think you're playing at?"

"I'm not sure I quite follow you, Severus," the silver-haired man replied with a polite smile.

"Where do you come off feeding her such fantasies?" Snape strode up to the man, snarling threateningly into his face, "You do realize that she believes you, don't you?"

When the man didn't reply, Snape continued, "Well you had better stay away from her or I might have to make your 'dirty little secret' known. Do I make myself clear?"

Professor Maelstrom sighed and sat down, taking a sip from a nearby teacup and rubbing his temples. "I'm afraid I understand all too well," he murmured softly, his eyes sad. Finally he looked back up at Snape, who was still on edge, "Will you at least allow me to clear things up with Artemis before I leave?"

"Leave?" Snape repeated.

"Yes. It seems I have overstayed my welcome here."

Snape tried not to let his glee show. "Very well."

"Thank you, Severus." Professor Maelstrom replied graciously, "Now if you'll please excuse me—I must think."

Snape merely glowered and left.

The professor sat for a moment in his chair, stunned. She had promised she would not tell anybody. He furrowed his brow, yet something had caused her to tell this man. Fortunately, Severus did not seem to believe it, considering the whole matter an elaborate lie he had fed to Artemis for one reason or another.

Heaving a sigh, Professor Maelstrom set his cup down and stood. Artemis had not kept her part of their agreement. She was not strong, he reasoned. She would easily be taken care of.

x…x

Art sat in her room, curled up on her bed, unsure of what to do. She wondered if death was as frightening as people said it was. She had resigned herself to her fate, considering that Professor Maelstrom most likely knew she had broken her vow that she would keep his secret. She wistfully wished that she could say goodbye to her parents and her sister, but there was nothing to be done. Her hands trembled too much to even write a letter. She had already tried.

And then came the knock she had been dreading. "Eldrige!"

Art jumped, startled. That wasn't Professor Maelstrom.

Filch burst in, his face purple and his eyes practically popping from their sockets. "Yeh were supposed to be out in the gardens over an hour ago! Get movin'!"

She apologized sorrowfully, recalling that she had indeed forgotten her assignment in all the excitement in the dungeons. Realizing that there was no use in trying to explain to Filch that she expected to be dead in a few hours, Art merely left and made her way out into the gardens, noticing with dismay that it was grey and drizzly outside. She was just wondering how long it would be before the vampire found her when Professor Maelstrom stepped out from behind some of the shrubbery.

"Good afternoon, Artemis," his voice was soft, but the warmth was gone. He seemed to have shed whatever part of him might have been human and all that was left was the predator.

"Hello," She made a weak attempt at friendliness.

"Now, you wouldn't be attempting to weasel your way onto my good side, would you?" He smiled grimly, his lips tight and his eyes cold.

"No," Art shook her head slowly, "I was merely being polite."

"Well, now that we have the niceties taken care of…" Professor Maelstrom stated silkily, moving nearer. "I don't suppose I need to tell you that you have become a most annoying thorn in my side, do I." It was not a question.

"No, I figured that I'd be receiving a call from you once Severus came storming into your office…he did, didn't he?" Art felt surprisingly brave in front of the creature before her.

The professor laughed in an unfriendly way, "Yes indeed. He is quite predictable."

Art disagreed with a bit of confusion, wondering what insight a vampire might have into the human mind. Snape was definitely one of the more difficult people to read. "Then I suppose you'll be disposing of me and moving on?" She inquired, trying to merely sound curious and hide all hints of worry.

"Well, after you there still remains the small matter of your…beau," Maelstrom stated delicately.

Art's calm façade fell from her face and shattered into a hundred tiny pieces. "What?" She choked. "You only said—"

"I made it quite clear that I would remove anybody who posed a threat to me," the vampire looked up at the sky and back to Art with a thin-lipped smile. "And now I must dispose of you before those clouds clear."

Shocked, Art wasn't sure what happened as he struck, but somehow she managed to dodge his attack and found herself running for the castle. All she could think about was that she had to find Dumbledore. If she could just make it to him—

Her thoughts were torn from her as a cold hand wrapped around her arm, pulling her backward with impossible force. She felt teeth enclose her throat for a moment and hot breath waft across her neck as Maelstrom murmured in a heady voice, "I haven't eaten in _days_."

Art hardly had time to think before she had shifted into her animagus form, intent on living now that she had a reason to. She whirled on her attacker, catching his shoulder with one horn and feeling his clothes and flesh tear before she turned and charged for the door. The ground was wet and muddy from the rain, but Art managed to stay ahead of Professor Maelstrom long enough to reach the stairs that led to the main entrance.

She chanced a glance behind her and felt something suddenly take her by the horns. Art looked in fear at the beast that had somehow managed to make its way in front of her. She bellowed in fear as Professor Maelstrom, eyes glowing fiery, his face transfigured by a malicious grimace, heaved her to the side and watched as the roan cow slipped on the slick stairs and tumbled to the ground below.

Art felt her head connect with something hard—a stair perhaps—her leg twisted beneath her. There was a loud crack, an intense, blinking shot of pain, and then creeping darkness that slowly overtook her, enveloping her in a cold black void.

x…x

Professor Maelstrom barely had time to hide his satisfaction behind a mask of mild shock before somebody rushed up from out of the gardens.

"I 'eard a noise!" Hagrid exclaimed thunderously. "What 'appened?" He suddenly caught sight of the figure sprawled on the grass. Art had reverted to her human form just moments ago before her eyelids had forever covered her curious grey eyes.

"It appears that Artemis lost her footing on the stairs," Professor Maelstrom drawled. "I attempted to assist her, but—" he shrugged.

Hagrid hardly seemed to be listening, hastily checking for a pulse with his sausage-like fingers. His black eyes softened with relief and he smiled, "She's 'live!" He looked back down at Art's prone form, missing the angry expression on Maelstrom's face. _How could she have survived?_ He thought angrily.

"Barely though," The big man murmured. "She's a nasty conk on the 'ead."

Maelstrom sneered, but quickly assumed a neutral expression as Hagrid looked up again. "Shouldn't you get help then?" Maelstrom inquired, hoping to lure the oaf away.

Hagrid considered the idea before shaking his great head and picking Art up. "Nah. I'll just take 'er to Madame Pomfrey. Comin'?"

Maelstrom shook his head, not saying a word as he retreated to his tower.

x…x

"Severus?" Snape heard a soft tap on his door and looked up in time to see McGonagall enter, a grave expression on her face.

"What is it?" He snapped, not in the best of moods.

"It's Artemis. She—she fell. You had better see for yourself."

Snape immediately stood, dropping his quill. He followed silently as McGonagall hurriedly led him toward the hospital wing, too shocked to say anything.

Upon entering the hospital wing, he rushed toward the bedside around which several staff members had gathered, including Filch, who seemed to be rubbing his eyes a lot due to "that darned dust." Dumbledore gazed solemnly at Snape as the man slowly approached and looked down at the girl on the bed. She looked peaceful, as if she was merely sleeping.

"What happened?" He asked in a low voice.

Hagrid let out a sob and McGonagall comfortingly patted him on the back as Dumbledore answered, "She took a fall on the stairs outside—"

"That's a broken leg, three broken ribs, and a compound fracture in her skull," Madame Pomfrey interrupted.

"She's alive then," Snape obviously seemed relieved.

"Somewhat," Dumbledore stated in a grim voice, his blue eyes not twinkling this time.

"Somewhat?" Snape echoed.

"She's unconscious, Severus."

"When will she wake?" Snape inquired in a steady voice, gazing down at the girl.

"Severus," Madame Pomfrey began softly, "I don't think she'll ever wake. Her brain was damaged and it's put her in a coma."

Snape did not hear anything that was said afterward, nor did he feel their comforting hands on his shoulders. He felt numb as he stared down at Art, silent tears dropping freely down his face.

"Come," Dumbledore said to the small gathering, "Let him be."

Everybody left, Filch now completely overcome with emotion, as well as Hagrid, who was still sobbing. "She were a great 'elp, an' now she's all unconscious-like. When I think 'bout what would've 'appened to 'er if Professor Maelstrom weren't there to 'elp…"

Snape suddenly stiffened, but he did not move until everybody had left. Glancing closely at Art, he suddenly noticed a mark on her neck resembling the one she had shown him just weeks before. Cursing, he stumbled angrily for the door, wondering at how blind he had been. She had outright warned him, hadn't she?

And he had refused to listen. Now she was as good as dead and it was his fault.

No, he suddenly thought. It was Maelstrom's fault. How lucky indeed, Snape considered snidely, that Quinn should have Maelstrom there to _help her down the stairs._ Grimacing, Snape felt in his pocket for his wand and made for the Astronomy tower. For the second time that day, he burst in, but this time he had his wand pointed at the creature within.

Vaughan Maelstrom had his back turned to the door and was writing a hasty, yet graceful, letter of resignation when he heard Snape enter. He turned around and smiled.

"Ah, Sever—" He didn't finish. There was a flash of bright light and then it cleared. The two men faced each other silently. There was no more pretending; each had an expression of mutual hatred etched on his face. Maelstrom chuckled, pleased to have avoided whatever curse the man had tried to place on him. Didn't he know that vampires were immune—

"Look."

The word was cold and simply stated as Snape gestured with his wand.

Maelstrom's gaze trailed downward and he felt a sudden sharp pinch as he caught sight of the silver stake embedded in his steely heart.

"Oh," He stated, looking up once more into the face of his enemy before he crumpled to the ground and dissolved into a small pile of ash.

Snape cast one last disgusted look at the ash, which had been caught by a draft and was beginning to stir, dusting everything in the room with its soft grey touch. He stormed from the room, returning to the hospital wing. To a flushed and surprised Madame Pomfrey, he stated, "Keep her here as long as is needed. I will find a way to wake her or die myself."

Then he left.


	18. Epilogue

_**Well, here it is finally. The last of the adventures. Hope you enjoyed the ride! (oh, and thanks for putting up with us) 8D**_

_12 years, 6 months, 17 days, 3 hours, 23 minutes later..._

Snape did not look back as he stumbled through the thick forest brush, his cloak catching on outstretched brambles and tearing slightly. He refused to take it off and leave it behind. It was one of the few things he had left to remind him of her, besides the still, unmoving body that remained in the corner of the hospital wing.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small vial filled with a shimmering gold substance. Another possession of hers. He decided he would need the luck more today than any other day, and he hurriedly drank it before making his way up to the old, dilapidated house just on the outskirts of the forest to meet the Dark Lord.

x…x

Meanwhile, Madame Pomfrey was having her share of problems attempting to keep an orderly infirmary while the castle was under attack. She knew she should be helping her comrades outside, but Snape had made sure to ask her to stay with Art before he abandoned them and went running into the forest. She detested him, especially since he had become headmaster only after killing Dumbledore, but she had seen something in his eyes when he had implored her to watch Art—something that reminded her of that grey morning when he had stood alone with the unconscious girl with tears streaming down his pale cheeks. So she stayed, fighting any scurrilous rogues that attempted to come into her hospital wing.

In the midst of fighting one such wizard, she managed to dodge a rather nasty curse, as well as the bedpan that followed it. This wizard seemed to like throwing things around when he was riled up. She finally sent an immobilizing spell his way, hitting him square in the chest. "Take that!" She dusted her hands off and turned around, shocked when she saw that the bedpan had hit the unconscious woman on the cot in the corner.

"Oh, dear Merlin—" Madam Pomfrey rushed nearer, sighing with relief when she saw that the woman had remained somewhat in the same state she had been in before: unconscious.

She turned away again, not noticing the slight flicker of Art's eyelids. About to return to her guard at the door, Madame Pomfrey suddenly halted as a soft voice reached her ears.

"Where's Severus?"

Whirling, Madame Pomfrey met Art's grey eyes and, for one moment, felt the urge to burst into tears. She settled for a quick embrace and then held the girl arm's length away, admiring her silently.

"Artemis…" Madame Pomfrey suddenly felt her mood drop again. She remembered the grave duty she had to tell Art about Snape.

"Where is he?" Art repeated.

Madame Pomfrey sighed, unable to tell Art everything that had happened while she slept in that lonely corner. "He went into the forest. My guess is that he was going to the shrieking shack. That's where…"

"Where what?" Art asked curiously.

"Never mind," the woman hastily replied, trying to keep Art as blissfully unaware of the current state of things as she could. She knew Art's heart would break if she realized what was happening and whose side Snape was on.

"Here," she changed the subject, digging through one of her potion cabinets. "You probably have a nasty headache," she rifled around through the disorganized mess. It was usually quite clean and orderly, but today was not the day to keep up on cleaning. Madame Pomfrey grabbed what likely was a pain-killing potion and handed it to Art. "This should help," she murmured, knowing that if it didn't, at least it wouldn't harm Art. "Take it with you."

Art nodded and left, making her way through the hallways and out the main entrance, which had been bashed in by some gigantic force. She hardly seemed to notice as she clutched the potion, dodging both green and red spells, absently wondering what was happening. It didn't matter too much to her, she thought, intent on finding Snape. Why had he gone to the shrieking shack? She wondered silently as she pushed her way through the brush at the edge of the forest.

Staring at the ground, she noticed quite a few footprints crisscrossing in the soft soil, going both toward and away from the shack as she approached it. Frowning, Art made her way inside and followed the footprints in the dust. They suddenly ended, however, and Art gasped at the sight before her.

There, on the floor in a pool of his own blood, lay Snape, his eyes beginning to glaze over.

"Severus!" Art exclaimed, leaping to his side and touching the large wounds in his neck. His eyes stared past her, already too dark to make anything out anymore. He had resigned himself to death.

Beginning to sob, Art realized that his wounds must hurt quite a bit, and she unstopped the potion Madame Pomfrey had given her, hoping to at least allow Snape to die comfortably.

She trickled what bit she could through his parched lips, then dribbled the rest over the tears in his flesh. There was a sudden sizzling sound and as Art looked on in astonishment, she saw the potion bubbling over the wound. Fascinated, Art watched as flesh began to slowly knit together and grow over the torn and bleeding gashes. Suddenly, Snape gave a jerk and slowly sat up, blinking exhaustedly. He looked over at Art, his eyes widening in mild surprise.

Art grinned through her tears, expecting a warm greeting. All she got was:

"That damn potion didn't even work."

"I'm sorry—what?" She asked, confused.

"Well I'm dead, aren't I?" Snape asked irritably.

"Er…no. I gave you this potion. Madame Pomfrey said it was a painkilling potion, but I don't think—"

Snape snatched the vial from her, sniffing it. "Damn!" He cursed for a second time. "It's a potion for curing snake wounds!" He suddenly whirled on Art, "Why are you here?"

Art frowned, "I—I came to see you."

"Oh, you just got up and decided that after twelve years it was about time to wake up?" He asked in a slightly hysterical, slightly sarcastic voice. It seemed Snape really had come to terms with dying, and now that he had been disappointed, he was a little put out.

"Twelve years?" Art asked in astonishment, "I didn't know…what happened to Professor Maelstrom?"

"Maelstrom is dead," Snape replied slowly, realizing that it was Art in front of him, and not a strange, horrifying dream. "How did you wake?"

"Something hit my head," Art replied, rubbing the bump absently and wincing. "It was very hard," she added wryly.

"Then—_felix felicitus_; it worked!" Snape said triumphantly.

Art wasn't sure what he was talking about, and she decided that it would be a good idea to return Snape to the hospital wing to recover. "Come on, Severus," She voiced her thoughts. "We'd better get back to the infirmary."

Snape resisted, his face suddenly blank and steely. "No." He replied quietly. "I'm done with that place."

"Madame Pomfrey isn't that bad," Art insisted, trying to pull him up.

Snape stood, but did not move when she tried to lead him toward the door. "I'm finished with Hogwarts, Quinn. I'm not going back."

"Where…where will you go then?" Art asked, suddenly feeling dread. Was he just going to leave everything, including her, behind? She felt very left out and alone at that moment.

Snape gazed off toward someplace behind Art before focusing on her again and asking, "How does Romania sound?"

"Am I going too?" Art inquired timidly, her hopes lifting.

"Of course," Snape replied, taking both of her hands in his and staring at her with a softened expression.

"Do we have to live in the hut again?" Art asked solemnly.

Snape laughed suddenly and kissed Art, feeling what seemed like ten years slough off of his shoulders. "No, Quinn," he responded with a smile, and embraced her.


End file.
